Selfless Acts
by youronlydoll
Summary: Isme always thought she knew how her life would play out, but it seems Denethor has another plan for her. After denying her Faramir, she is forced to marry Boromir instead. Can she, in time, learn to love him before fate takes its own turn? B/OC/F
1. Pippin I

**Disclaimer: We all know the drill, Tolkien characters aren't mine, but Ismë and anyone else you don't recognise are my own invention :)**

**Update: To any returning readers, below is the new introduction to the story, which I suggest you read. It doesn't exactly change anything that has happened so far, but it might be useful (and hopefully, enjoyable) for you to read.**

**Please, please, please let me know what you think. I can take anything you want to throw at me, because I'm always looking to improve my writing.**

**Thank you,**

**Youronlydoll x**

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**Selfless Acts**

Pippin I

Looking back, I wonder how it came to be that I should cross paths with that lady of the House of Denethor. I wonder who decided that I should get to witness those fateful days in Minas Tirith. I wonder who decided that I should be the one to tear her life apart.

I was just a simple Shire boy, young and innocent, barely aware that there was even such a thing as the outside world, when the Lady Ismë was living her most important years in the House of Denethor, a million miles away from my life. I had never set eyes on a member of the race of Men, neither had I seen dwarves or elves or any other beings, but Hobbits. So, how could it be that our lives should intertwine so many years later?

Fifteen years after she had arrived there was when I first encountered her in Minas Tirith. They were dark times for her, dark times for us all. She did not speak to me for days after I had arrived, still to this day I do not know if she knew I was even there, and when she did she was full of a sorrow and melancholy, such like I had I never seen before. There was so much sadness in that house!

We had arrived, Gandalf and I, to find a city cowering in the corner, like a tiny babe who's lost its mother. The people never stopped to speak to us – such like in the Shire, when every Hobbit knows every other – only to pause and stare in awe at the great wizard who had come to visit them. They were a city paralysed by fear and I could not blame them. I had never been so close to the land of Mordor until I went to that ill-fated city. The shadow of it had nearly covered them, they had almost been consumed by it, there was little hope left. It was hard to be rid of that shadow, even once it was out of sight, for I think it had infiltrated the city long before I arrived there. It had been infecting everybody inside for many years, like a disease without any symptoms or like something nestled in the ridge in the middle of your back, so that, though you always feel it there, no matter which way you turn, you can never quite see what it is.

They, who rarely encountered strangers in their city, let alone their own home, were a broken family. Never more was a roaring fire and a few friendly words so direly needed. But the more time I spent there, the more I began to realise that not all the friendly words in the world could bring them back from the shadows, for the damage was already too far gone.

Lord Denethor was a frightening man, that was another thing I learnt. I should have known it by the way in which he spoke to Gandalf, for the wizard was nothing but civil with him. I had not heard anyone speak to Gandalf in that way, as everybody knows how great he is and how much he does his best to help. But my judgement was clouded. The thought of Boromir, the memory of him and the time we spent with him was lodged in my mind and would not go away. When I looked upon his father's face, it only served to make me see it even more vividly than before. How could a man so cold, so weak, have fathered a great man like Boromir?

Perhaps that was why I offered him my services. I thought he would be like Boromir and that it would be so grand to serve a man like that, so noble, so brave. That along with the thought of Boromir and the gratitude I felt towards him for protecting us. I knew I had to make it up in some way.

But I think fate had given me a push somewhere along the line too. For the moment I set eyes on the lady in question I knew that I had to help her, I had to help them all – for the others, Faramir and Adora needed me just as much as the Lady Ismë did. It was not as though I could give them anything in particular…what I mean is, it could have been anyone, so long as they had the right amount of affection and determination. All they needed was _someone_, a stranger, to enter their little world, enter their great stone fortress and pull them up and out from their stupor. I was no more special than anyone else who might chance upon them at one point in their lives. But I think I was the biggest-hearted thing that had stepped foot those doors in a long time. It was circumstance; it was fate that brought me there, at just the right time as well – for surely the war of the Ring would have destroyed them, had Gandalf and I not intervened when we did.

Many events were to happen before I got there, all of which I knew nothing about beforehand. I do not think that even Gandalf knew about many of them, for Lord Denethor was a secretive man, who rarely left the comfort of his home to seek the company of outsiders. Nor did any outsiders venture into his realm in return. Faramir was Gandalf's only link in those fateful years, although they had been but newly acquainted shortly before everything had begun.

But of course, I was blissfully unaware of these events as they occurred. I was still a young Hobbit, too busy being chased out of cornfields with handfuls of stolen vegetables, or sneaking through windows or drinking too much ale in the Green Dragon with my friends. I was completely oblivious to the goings on in Minas Tirith, the great white city that I had never even heard of back then, in a land that I dared not even think about going to. I was just like any other Hobbit then, content with my simple, happy life, without the slightest inclination to change things.

I have no idea why I was chosen to go down that path. For how could I have such an affect on one so important? What was I to the Lady Ismë, wife to a son of the Steward of Gondor? Who in the whole of Middle Earth would believe that I, a small Hobbit, could change the course of the future?


	2. One: New Beginnings

One

New Beginnings

The sky was growing steadily darker as Ismë approached her destination. The last of the suns rays hit the great city towering in front of her making it glow with a soft orange light. It was setting slowly in the west now, but they had been following its course since it had risen from the east, and for many days before that. It had not been until it had begun to set that Ismë caught sight of the white city, rising from the side of the mountain like a great and powerful wave, poised ready to crash upon any obstacle that stood in its way. The sight was outstanding. Her breath caught in her throat as the carriage grew closer and closer, soon she was underneath it, staring up at it almost vertically above her. This was to be her home now and she knew that she would never get tired of looking upon it.

But one could not escape the ever-growing darkness that was the land of Mordor. Turning her face towards the east, Ismë caught her first glimpse of the land that threatened all of Middle Earth with destruction and ruin. A sudden anger rose within her at the sight of the thick black smoke that continuously rose from the great mountain in the centre, smothering the land in a never ending night, choking the life from it slowly and subtly day by day.

She twisted away from it and back to the west, where the setting sun shone vividly and threw its warmth over the vast lands of Gondor. A small smile of hope played on her lips as she remembered that despite being so close to such a great evil, the city of Minas Tirith shone still like a beacon in that ever desolate place.

She felt a quiver of excitement run through her at this new opportunity, but her stomach was heavy at the thought of leaving her family. She would dearly miss her mother and father, not to mention her brother and sister. They had promised her that they would see her often and she believed them gladly, this had reassured her immensely and she knew she would cling to this thought if she ever felt lonely or sad about leaving.

They reached the city gates just as the sun slipped softly over the horizon, casting the land into shadow again. Strong arms pulled them open as they advanced closer and they entered the city at last. Without stopping for food or rest the company in which Ismë was travelling made their way to the very top of the city, where she was told the Steward of Gondor waited for her. It was a momentous time for Ismë; she was only twelve and she had been sent to Gondor in order to renew an alliance that had once existed between her kin and the people of Gondor. Many, many years before they had formed a strong friendship, broken in recent times – why this happened, she did not know, nobody seemed to think it necessary for her to know and she had certainly never asked – and her Father thought it wise to rekindle this relationship. He had decided to do this in the old way, through a marriage. A marriage settlement was stronger and lasted longer than any amount of deals or treaties the two men could make. A marriage ensured a long line of descendants that would honour the allegiance and keep it in tact long after those who had made it were dead. This was a wise move on her Father's part in the changing times.

They did not know yet whether Lord Denethor would accept their olive branch, but he had requested that Ismë be brought to him so he could look upon her before making his decision. Unfortunately, her Father had overlooked one small thing. By all means he had heard of the type of man that Lord Denethor was before he went ahead with the idea, but he did not foresee the implications of this, until the plan was too far gone to back out. But for the present, all were oblivious to his future actions and plans, and so Ismë went liked a blindfolded lamb to the sacrificial table that was the House of Lord Denethor.

She was very intimidated by the steward at first. She had heard that he was a strange man, temperamental and unpredictable, not to mention dishonest. Indeed he appeared to fit the description from afar when she first set eyes on him but as soon as he saw her he greeted her with a smiling and open face. She felt instantly relaxed.

"Lady Ismë," he exclaimed. No one had ever called her a lady before, it was something only the women at court were called, she was far too young to be called that just now. But even so, she was delighted. To be finally made equal with an elder was something she had always wanted. She had constantly felt annoyed at being treated like she was a young child, instead of the young woman she was becoming.

He waited until she was brought in front of him to continue: "Welcome to Minas Tirith, my dear. Your Father has been true to his word, you are a fine girl."

She blushed and curtsied. "Thank you, my Lord."

"Come, come now." He replied standing and walking towards her. He gently pulled her by the chin out of her lowered position so that she was standing straight before him. "You are weary from your journey; do not trouble yourself with such formalities." He returned to his chair and sat down again. "Now, tell me about yourself."

"What do you wish to know, my Lord?" Ismë asked.

"Well, for starters, do you sew? Play music?"

"I can, very well in fact." He nodded, clearly pleased.

"Do you sing?"

"A little, my Lord. And I can read and write. I am skilled with a sword and can ride very well." He looked up in surprise at the last comment and she suddenly felt as though she should not have said that. She backtracked with a nervous laugh. "Forgive me, my Lord; when I said 'skilled' I exaggerated. I know very little in fact, only just enough to know how it works and to defend myself if need be."

"Very good." He replied, slowly and solemnly, looking at the ground and rubbing his chin. There were a few moments of silence as he thought, before he looked back at her, smiling again. "Very good, very good." He repeated with more vigour. "I hope you will be very happy here, young Ismë."

"I'm sure I will, my L–."

He interrupted her. "Call me 'Father'." He said with a wink. She smiled widely back at him. The deal had been sealed.

Ismë had taken a quick, but naïve, liking to Lord Denethor. He was welcoming and seemingly understanding to her position. She was never exactly told the purpose for which she was there. She presumed she was there to befriend them all, to keep a peace between them and her family so that they may rely upon each other in troubled times. She felt honoured at this. She was almost right in that, but she still did not know how precisely she would do this. She had also not planned to go and live there straight away; she thought she would be able to return home first of all, but it seemed Lord Denethor wished her to stay as soon as possible. This, she found out many years later, was one of the terms of the agreement between her father and the steward, despite the fact that she was many years away from a marriageable age. Nevertheless, she was excited to be living in this new city and with a man who could easily and gladly become her second father. She was also promised that she would see her family every month, so she was safe in the knowledge that she would see them again very soon and possibly not have enough time to miss them.

After three days in her new life, Ismë met the two young brothers that would be her salvation throughout the rest of her childhood. The sons of Lord Denethor were quite different to Denethor himself, he was quite solemn most of the time, but they were happy and carefree when she first met them, roaming around the city as they wished. Boromir and Faramir were their names; Boromir was the eldest and a very tall and strong young man of twenty-two, whilst Faramir was rather smaller, yet still filled with the same brave spirit as his brother; he was not that much older than Ismë at seventeen.

They were uneasy around her initially, not seeing much of young girls or of many women at all for that matter. Their mother had died when they were young and they only had a nurse to raise them. They said little to Ismë on their first meeting, a few forced and phatic words, and when left alone with them to eat they spoke quietly together and of things that Ismë did not know about and could not join in with. It was certainly not intentionally done by them, they were young men still and did not understand the situation of Ismë and how she was feeling, but still it made her very upset. For the first couple of weeks they continued residing this way together, with the boys talking seriously with each other and Ismë sitting aside with a book or a doll alone. Every now and then she would catch one of them looking at her, more often than not it was Faramir, but they would quickly look away and not say a word to her.

In usual situations Ismë was not one to be shy or quiet, but nor was she one to be brash and loud, demanding attention. She regularly spoke her mind but only when she deemed it appropriate and necessary. She knew her mind well, but in this new city and home she was completely out of her depth. She did not want to accidentally say the wrong thing or do anything out of line, in case she was to upset Lord Denethor and his two sons. She was clever in being wary for, though she did not know her exact path, she knew that Lord Denethor held her future in his hands.

It was Faramir that broke the divide between them. His brother had been called away and so he was alone with Ismë. The silence that rang between them was ever more awkward without Boromir, who had a loud and commanding presence. They sat opposite each other in their schoolroom, books out in front of them, practising handwriting and sums. It was not often that they did things together, save for eating, for the boys were always off training and talking of more important matters with other men in the court, but Faramir was still fairly young and so occasionally joined her in her studies.

Ismë had a beautiful neat hand but she had never been good at sums. She sat with her head in her hands, staring blankly at the open book. She had noticed Faramir glance up at her a few times, but made no response, save for a long sigh, drawn out slowly through her nostrils. He looked back up at this.

"Do you need help?" He inquired. Her head snapped up look at him in return, surprised at his words, for the boys had seldom talked to her directly.

"I suppose I do," she replied after some time. He closed his book and got up out of his seat. Picking up his paper he walked slowly around to the other side of the table where Ismë was sitting.

"I am not as good as my brother at sums but I will help you as much as I can." He sat down next to her and smoothed out his paper beside hers. He began to explain various sums that she did not know the answers to and she nodded in acknowledgement and understanding as he went. He was not completely clear in his explanation, but she was grateful for the help and for the conversation. It had definitely somewhat broken the tension between them.

When he was finished, Ismë returned the favour, helping him with his writing. He had a very messy hand and it ended up that she had to guide his hand with hers – a thing that he had heartily laughed at when she did it – but he was also very focused and they were done in no time at all.

"We make a good team," she said as they finished. A warm smile spread across her face and Faramir's face lit up in reply. And that was all it took. A close bond and friendship ensured after this moment. And later with Boromir too.

A month later and they were all the best of friends. Despite her being much younger than the two of them, especially Boromir, she matched them in wit and intelligence, being quick with words and comebacks to their boyish teasing. A year later and Ismë was like family to them. They were very protective of her and cared for her as they would a little sister. Many of these years passed before anything changed between them. It was not until Ismë approached her eighteenth birthday that plans that she had no control over began to set into motion.


	3. Two: Out of Grasp

Two

Out of Grasp

A number of years passed by them all and they continued as happily as they could be. Ismë saw little of the battles that took place outside of her own little world, though she was always aware of them. At first she had been extremely frightened. Back at home the threat in of the east was but a rumour and little action was taken against it by her people, but here there was constant battle against the dark forces of Mordor and it was ever present in the minds of everyone in the city. She had never been so close to such evils in her life.

She did however find them immensely interesting, always asking news about them and how they went; what tactics were used and how well the enemy fought, how many of them there were and what weapons they carried. The boys had been involved in them for many years, but Ismë was too young and naïve to comprehend the true meaning and severity of them. Over the years they had become a permanent part of their lives and as she was still quite a young girl, she heard about them but was never actively involved in them.

The boys were fast becoming mature men, for Boromir was now twenty-seven and Faramir twenty-three. Ismë herself was nearing eighteen and had bloomed into a sprightly young woman. Lord Denethor had watched her slowly ripen into a suitable age for marriage for six years now and finally the time had come.

However, over the years he had become increasingly detached from his children. Ismë saw him little, not even at mealtimes and seldom during the day, but when she did see him, he was always nothing but happy and pleased with her, as was he with Boromir. It was a different story with Faramir though. He had slowly grown more and more distant from him, snapping at him frequently, constantly telling him how inferior he was to Boromir. He picked up on every mistake and every weakness in his character.

But Ismë thought him beautiful in his flaws. To her, he was perfect. She felt strongly for both brothers, but she shared something special with Faramir. He understood Ismë far more than Boromir. She recognised that Boromir was indeed the stronger, braver brother, more fierce and fearless in battle than Faramir, but he had qualities to match this of a different kind. No one could fault Boromir for his feelings of pride and loyalty towards his people and Ismë supposed that because Faramir did not display these feelings quite so openly, Lord Denethor thought that he did not feel them at all. But he was wrong. Faramir was devoted to his people, to his brother and to Ismë, as much as Boromir was, and to his father despite how he treated him. Ismë saw this, but Denethor never would, he was completely blind to it.

Ismë watched day by day, week by week and year by year as Faramir was put down by his father time after time again. None were able to do anything about it, save for watch. And none spoke of it, to Denethor or Faramir. Ismë spoke of it often to Boromir, urging him to make Denethor stop, but he only replied that he could do nothing. Countless times he had tried, it was true, but it was always fruitless. Eventually Ismë stopped trying to change things between father and son, but she always partly despised Denethor for it. She could not understand why the sweet fatherly figure she had once believed in would act in such a way. The only explanation that she could think of was that something had happened previously, when she was not there, to cause an anger between the two of them. In that way she could escape placing the blame on Denethor, though deep down she always knew it was there.

Despite all of this, in her ever present innocence, she still did not see Lord Denethor for his true character, even though it was staring at her in the face. She still believed in all his words of affection and all his promises. After all, he had kept his promise to her that she would see her family often. She did see them sometimes, though not as often as he had said at the beginning. But it was not his fault of course, as he had explained, for her home lands were far north from Gondor and it was a long journey to and from the city. She did not see her mother and father until six months after she had arrived at Minas Tirith and her siblings not until a year later. After that she saw them every six months or so for four years. But the visits had grown further apart and got shorter and shorter, and now she had not seen them any of them for a whole year – her brother and sister for two years. But she did not despair, she knew they still cared for her, but as Lord Denethor told her each time she asked, they lived so very far away and in these increasingly dangerous times, it was folly to travel so far a distance over such troubled lands; she was then content in knowing that they were safe at her old home.

And so she continued with her life in the white city, content with the memories of her family, and the distant prospect of seeing them again when things were more peaceful, and the company of her 'new' family – her two new brothers, who cared for her just as much as her other siblings did.

Her days were fairly mundane in Minas Tirith. She spent her mornings practising her music or sewing, activities deemed suitable for a young woman and pursuits that she did indeed enjoy most of the time. Then, if they were around, the ladies of the court would often join her for lunch, then after she would wander around the city or sit in her room with her maidservant talking and laughing, for her maid was also her closest friend. In the afternoons she helped out with the horses, feeding and grooming them, more out of pleasure than duty and for want of some kind of purposeful task. Or sometimes Lord Denethor would wish to see her. Then her evenings would be spent entertaining his guests, eating dinner with them and charming them with her fresh young face and pretty smile. It was not something she relished, but she was often glad of the company.

She had few friends in the court, most of the people residing there were older than her and were men, who did not think her worthy of attention nor capable of intelligent conversation. Boromir and Faramir were absent more and more often, with the times becoming increasingly difficult and the power of Mordor growing.

Then one not so special day, Lord Denethor called her to his hall. She was not surprised for she had not seen him for almost two weeks and as a rule he regularly liked to check up on her. It was nearing midday when she went to see him and Boromir and Faramir had not been seen all morning. The door to the Great Hall opened almost automatically as her footsteps approached. Lord Denethor smiled as she entered and continued walking until she was standing before him.

"My Lord." She acknowledged, bowing low.

"Ismë, you look lovely as usual." She was puzzled by the comment, so out of character for him, but he seemed to be in good spirits and she was not one to upset him, not knowing how he would react. She smiled politely in reply. He inquired after her health and asked what her movements had been that morning and for the past two weeks. It was trivial conversation that she could tell he was not interested in but was simply asking her out of courtesy and not sincerity. She answered nonetheless and told him of all her doings. When she had finished, he clapped his hands and exclaimed: "Good, good! That is well indeed." His tone was far too enthusiastic than she would have thought it would be over such a matter as small as it was. She began to be suspicious of his good temper.

"And now, Ismë my dear, I have some good news for you." He rose from his chair and walked to face her. Cupping her chin with his hand, he looked at her softly and with a warmth in his eyes that she had seen whenever he looked at Boromir. "You are to be married."

She was taken unawares but by no means shocked at the statement. She knew she was of a marriageable age now, or fast approaching it at least, for it was but one month before her eighteenth birthday. She had been thinking over the matter a lot lately, her days were slow and so she had lots of time to think about the matter and to ask herself questions such as: who shall I marry? That was the big question. But of course she had already answered it. She would marry Faramir. She had chosen him long ago.

"I am surprised by this, my Lord, but I was by no means unaware that this may happen. I know I am nearly eighteen and I have already decided who I will choose."

"Choose?" All trace of pleasure and warmth fell from his face. "You will not have a choice, my dear." She frowned as he let out a laugh from deep in his chest as he returned to sit down. But it was not a reassuring expression; it was most _un_reassuring in fact. It was hollow and cold. "I have chosen for you."

"But, my Lord-"

"Do not speak, child!" Lord Denethor cut her off sharply, his face turning from its previous calm state to a look of utter disgust. Ismë was shocked at the sudden transformation. She had seen him angered before but never at her.

She was disappointed that the choice was not up to her; annoyed that someone else would have control over her future, but by no means completely disheartened. Despite the fact that he had openly showed her his true face, she truly believed that Lord Denethor knew her well and would want her to be happy in her marriage. She thought that if this was the case then he would have noticed the relationship between her and Faramir and so would gladly pick him as her husband. But how wrong she was.

Lord Denethor did not have her happiness or any part of her in mind when he chose for her. In fact, he had never even met her when he made the decision of whom she would marry. It would be his first born, of course, his strongest and most beloved son – Boromir.

Ismë returned to her room in a daze. What a strange turn the day's events had taken. In the course of what was only hours her life had completely changed. All her secret hopes and plans had been dashed and if it was not for the shock that she felt towards the revelation she should be very angry with Lord Denethor. In fact, the more she thought about it the angrier she did in fact become. Who was he to choose her husband for her? Did he not see that she wished to marry Faramir instead? She could not comprehend how someone could be completely blind to what was happening right in front of them.

After Lord Denethor had explained to her what would be occurring Boromir himself was summoned into the Hall in order that they may face each other as future husband and wife.

Ismë was still reeling from the exposure of Denethor's secret plans and had said nothing in reply to them yet. She did not look at him until he stopped but a little away from her. Denethor said nothing but watched the two of them, Boromir made no sound either. Ismë turned to look as he stood beside her. His head was bowed as if in shame or embarrassment. He looked very serious and wore a deep frown, as one who is suffering greatly, but is duty bound to endure it. His expression softened as he looked at her in return. She only stared blankly back at him.

Numbly she had stood and listened to Denethor as he relayed all the plans for the wedding. When he was finished she had politely excused herself and now she walked the corridors, trying to make sense of all that had been said to her.

Her wonderings soon led her back to her room but she found no comfort there. She restlessly paced the floor going over the previous conversation in her head again and again. Her hands made fists at her sides, anger pulsing through them. She exhaled strongly and growled in frustration before bursting through the doors that led onto the balcony. The cold air hit her face sharply and she gladly breathed it in, feeling it refresh and calm her instantly. She held the ledge firmly for support and looked out onto the vast plains before her.

The House of Lord Denethor was located at the very top of the city, overlooking the southern and eastern lands of Gondor and the shadow that was Mordor. Smoke rose from Osgiliath to the east and to the west the sun was setting. A strong wind from the mountains played in Ismë's hair and she began to cry, overwhelmed by the wealth of emotions she was feeling.

Footsteps sounded from behind as someone approached. She felt a hand on the back of her crumpled form, just lightly touching the softness of her dress. She unfolded herself quickly and pulled away from the touch, pressing herself against the stone ledge as she turned to face who ever it was.

It was Faramir. He stood before her with a look that she could not quite decipher, was it sorrow? Pity? Regret? His breath came out slowly; she could see it condense in the air, her own rapid breaths merging delicately with his. The warm glow of the sun caught in his hair and played softly upon his skin and Ismë looked on him as an angel, not a man. The sight of him did nothing for her anxiety and anger, only making her feel worse.

They stood with barely a distance between them, not saying a word or moving an inch. Neither was quite sure how to react, for they had never once declared any feelings towards each other that were anything more than platonic. They simply held each others gaze for a few moments, until Faramir suddenly let out a long and deep sigh. He closed his eyes briefly and then looked at her resolutely.

"He will make you happy," he said. The exact meaning and purpose of his words were unknown to Ismë, at first glance it sounded like words of reassurance and comfort, but then again it also sounded like a command. He made to turn away but she gripped his hand to prevent him.

"But you must know," she exclaimed. "It is you who-"

He cut her off, putting a hand up to stop her. "No," he said forcefully, more so than she had ever seen him. "Do not say that. Do not say anything. Please." He said the last word more softly, pleading with his eyes too and she could never disobey. It seemed she was bound to be controlled by men from now on. She was dictated to by Denethor and utterly entranced by Faramir, and now Boromir would have rule over her too as his wife.

"There will always be things that are left unsaid," he continued. "But let them remain that way, please, for both our sakes."

She nodded, speechless, knowing that he was right. Then he embraced her. She felt his strong arms wrapped ardently around her and his jaw clenched tight as it rested on her head. It lasted seconds, but meant more than either of them could imagine. And then he was gone.

Ismë returned inside and sat silently on her bed. An enormous wave of anger swept up from within her and she could do nothing to disperse it. She was not sure who it was aimed at – Denethor? Boromir? Faramir? Possibly it was a combination of all three.

Though she saw no reason to be angry at Faramir, she nonetheless felt a frustration towards him for the injustice done against her and because he would simply sit back and let it happen. But her anger towards him was short-lived and it soon turned to sorrow and she grieved for what should have been.

She also tried to be angry at Boromir – something told her she should hate him – but she could not. He had always cared for her and her for him; nothing could distract her from that, not even something as momentous as this. As she thought of him the image of his face as he stood before her in the hall whilst Denethor told her of her fate returned to her mind. She felt pity for him, as far as she knew he did not wish to marry her either. Each of them would be forever stuck in a loveless marriage.

But no, that last thought was wicked. She did love him. He was like a brother to her and she would not ever wish to see him unhappy. She was determined to do whatever it took to make sure he was content, even if it meant putting aside her feelings for Faramir to please both Lord Denethor and Boromir, and Faramir himself for that matter, for no good would ever come to any of them if she rebelled against this. She could easily loose control of her emotions and demand that the marriage not go ahead, but to what avail? Denethor would never allow it for it was the whole reason she had come to reside there in the first place. And even if he did call it off, Faramir would still never agree to marry her. Even if he did love her in return his sense of duty and loyalty towards his father would prevent him from ever going ahead with it. To go against this wish of Denethor's in particular would be harmful far, far beyond repair. Not to mention that if his beloved Ismë revealed that she loved his 'lesser' son over his preferred son then the damage to Faramir would be devastating; Denethor would despise him for the rest of his days.

At that moment, her maidservant entered the room – Adora her name was – disturbing her thoughts. She hastily wiped the tears that had silently fallen on her cheeks but the girl had already seen them. Ismë could hide nothing from her. Adora was a clever girl, more so than she needed to be for her station, but for that Ismë was grateful, she was fine company and had seen Ismë through many trials. Here was the greatest trial of all so far and of course, Adora was still by her side.

She stood once again in front of her now, not speaking, knowing that her presence meant more to her mistress than any words just now.

"Oh, Adie," Ismë cried, throwing herself on the girl and into a strong embrace.

"I have heard the news, my Lady, there is no need to explain or talk of it if you do not wish to," she said as they parted.

Ismë backed away from the girl and began to pace the floor. "I do not know what I wish to do right now," she said. "My head tells me to accept what is to be, but my heart tells me something else."

She flopped on the bed as a fresh wave of tears threatened to take hold. Adora sat beside her and stroked her hair softly. Despite the servant girl being younger than Ismë she often felt like she was a second mother to her, a stand in whilst her own mother could not be there. Besides, Adora had a wisdom beyond her young age of sixteen that Ismë could never grasp herself; she was destined to remain naïve and innocent to the foes around her, making mistake after mistake until she learnt otherwise.

"I love him, Adie. Lord Boromir, I mean. I do, I do love him. Like he were my own flesh and blood, I do."

"I know you do, my Lady."

"I have always said that I would follow my heart," Ismë explained. "But now it tells me two things. One that I love Captain Faramir and two that I must stay true to Boromir and marry him. How can I follow both paths?"

"'Tis a difficult choice, my Lady. I have seen the love you feel for both brothers; I know how strongly you feel for each of them."

"I am destined to live in a constant purgatory state then, I suppose!"

"Do not be so melodramatic, my Lady," Adora laughed. "I know you feel like if you take one path you are betraying the other, but you will not be. You are not the first woman to be caught between two men and you will not be the last." She paused to smile at her mistress. "You are a woman, my Lady; you are capable of doing more than one thing at one time, of feeling more than one emotion. And you are strong, you may not feel it right now but I can see it. You will bear this and you will come out of it at the end and you will have found your happiness."

So she would endure it. And for the rest of her life it seemed. It was a sad thought but not wholly disheartening. Adora's words filled her with a strange hope of what the future might hold. And besides, she would still reside in Minas Tirith and so would still get to spend time with Faramir. Adora also reminded her of the countless arranged marriages such as hers that left the women involved miserable and without their freedom. Adie was certain that this would not happen to her with Boromir and Ismë agreed and was thankful for that. He was kind-hearted, everyone knew that, and treated her like a dearly loved sister. She had been well protected and looked after by Boromir, and Faramir too, over the years and nothing would change that now. It would be like it always was, but she would hold the title of 'wife' from now on. She had a good, firm position now, being the wife of Boromir would bring her a great status. It was what her parents had always wanted for her and now she would fulfil their wish.

The thought of pleasing her parents gave Ismë a swell of determination and pride. She had to do this, she had to marry him. It seemed beneficial to all parties involved, except her of course, but she would gladly sacrifice her hopes for those of her parents. So she would do her best to be happy in the marriage and to forget her feelings for Faramir.

She could see her path in life clearly laid out in front of her now. She learned long ago that she would not get all the things she wanted in life and this was no different. Her purpose as a woman was to please others. And that was what she would do. An overwhelming sense of duty filled her, it almost crushed the nagging feeling of anger and sorrow that she still felt, but not quite.


	4. Three: Only Duty Bound

Three

Only Duty Bound

It wasn't until two days later that Ismë faced Boromir alone for the first time. She had had plenty of time to think over her situation and the idea was beginning to settle in her mind. Faramir had been away, where exactly he had gone she did not know, but she was thankful for it, for it meant that she did not have to see him and be reminded of what she was letting go of.

She was sitting in her room when Boromir came to see her. She had spent most of her time there in the last few days, with only her maidservant as company every now and then. It was dark outside and very cold, yet the doors to her balcony were wide open. She felt the stiff winter wind on her face as she sat on her bed opposite, watching the night sky as it grew blacker and blacker.

She had been sitting there for some time when there was a soft knock at the door. She called for whoever it was to enter and they did. She did not turn to look at them, she knew it was Boromir. His familiar smell of leather and earth hung about the room as he stood before her. At first he said nothing, only stared at her, and then he looked up at the open doors and said:

"You'll catch your death if you leave these open too long. 'Tis mid November now and the days are getting so much colder." He walked to the doors, taking long and hard steps and closed and bolted them. When he looked back at her, he sighed. "Look at you. You're frozen." He made to walk towards her, extending a hand to reach her, but then thought better of it. She looked only at the ground.

"I am fine," she said. He paused for a moment before replying.

"Then why won't you look at me." She did so then, giving him a weak smile. His voice was soft, not commanding. The sight of his face reassured her that she could never be angry at him. Some of her pent up anger was released, making her relax a little. Then he did approach her, he stopped directly in front of her and crouched to her level.

"I know you do not love me," he said, taking her hand in his. Her heart melted at this, she felt guilt and pity at the same time towards him. "But please, try to be happy. I have only ever wished to see you happy. And to make you smile as I used to when you were a young girl. Do you remember?"

She smiled genuinely at him, squeezing his hand. "I do remember."

He smiled in return and his face held a nostalgic look as he recalled memories from their past. "I would tease you so much back then. And Faramir-" He stopped at the mention of his brother and looked down at his feet. His face turned more serious and he looked straight into her eyes. She knew it then, that he knew she loved Faramir, but also that he himself loved her. "You are more than a sister to me, Ismë."

He took her face in his hands then and kissed her. It was just a small kiss, soft and gentle and full of love. His eyes were closed and she could feel his slight beard brush harshly against her chin. She did not return the kiss, it lasted a few moments and then he pulled away and said:

"Please, just try." Then he left her, sitting on her bed staring ahead as she had been before. Only when he had closed the door did she let the tears that she had been long holding in fall.

She had never once thought of the idea that he might truly love her. It surprised her beyond belief. It also complicated matters far more than before. Now she really could not feel anything for Faramir. As Boromir's wife she would have to be whole heartedly dedicated to him and only him. Anything less and she would feel like she was failing him. He deserved a loving and obedient wife and that was what she would give him.

The wedding preparations were instantly set into motion, far quicker than Ismë would have liked, and before she knew it she was standing under the white tree with her new husband clasping her hand.

A large congregation stood around her, the whole city had been invited, for nothing of more importance had happened there for a great many years. They were in the heart of winter now. A brisk wind from the north carried snow from the mountains and little delicate flakes of it fell gently around them. Boromir was clad in royal blue, and looked very handsome, with the symbol of Gondor embroidered on his chest, Ismë wore a white dress. She had pale blue flowers in her hair and wore a jacket of fur to keep the chill out.

One could not help but think that she was suited to her role as the wife of the future steward of Gondor, for she did indeed look very regal. There was something majestic in the way that she held herself, something that took her well beyond her years. It was a kind of aloofness, but one that was borne from strength and duty. It was as if she had now lost her childish naivety and was facing the world for what it truly was – brutal and as harsh as the mountains that stood proud behind her.

The newly found acceptance of her fate had produced this. She had shed her girlish innocence and frivolity; it was amazing how quickly one can change one's personality when faced with an inescapable task. In the space of just a couple of months Ismë's outlook on life had been completely reversed. Of course, the old Ismë was still in there, but it held a prouder face, more serious and more alert to the actions of the world around her. Her metamorphosis had started to begin.

But, despite this new way of thinking, looking out over the crowd of people Ismë could not help but be overwhelmed with the vastness of everything. For all of her years she had not expected to be standing where she was now, her breath caught in her throat and she was unsteady. She felt Boromir put a hand on the small of her back to right her again; she gave him a small smile and gripped his hand.

All of a sudden she felt a strange rush of emotion towards her new husband. Love for him poured from every ounce of her being and she was unexpectedly grateful that she was with him. If there was anyone, other than Faramir, that she was to face all the long years of her life with, it would be Boromir. Theirs would be a complex relationship, but love flowed through it nonetheless.

Faramir stood to the right of her husband, dressed similarly in the uniform of his rank. His sword was at his side and Ismë noticed that he was gripping the hilt firmly, as if he stood exposed to a nearby foe which might attack at any second. He was smiling, but his eyes held a sadness that Ismë could never mistake. Over the years she had studied his face endlessly. After countless times of being put down by Lord Denethor she had noticed that his expressions grew more and more difficult to read as he became hardened to the abuse thrown at him, but Ismë knew all of its subtleties and could pick up on any delicate movement that might give away how he was truly feeling.

And right now she was doing much the same. She played her part of happy wife well, smiling and saying all the right words, whilst inside barely feeling a thing. Not sadness or happiness, just nothing. She knew that if she allowed herself to feel she would simply fall apart.

For weeks now emotions and thoughts had played around in her head, conflicting and tearing away at her. The constant battle about whether to choose Boromir or Faramir raged away without rest. When she grew weary of the fight and no conclusion had been reached she simply decided to not think about it, because there really was no choice. It was a simple enough idea, but as every one who has even remotely tried it knows, it is very difficult. Even so, the time for wallowing had passed and now was certainly not the time for misbehaving either. Lord Denethor had watched her closely for the last month or so and had a particular eye on her on this very important day, so she could not let him catch a glimpse of her true feelings.

The day passed slowly for Ismë. She was barely involved in the celebrations, sitting quietly through the feast and simply watching during the evening festivities. Luckily this was a common occurrence for someone of her rank and gender, most of the fun was left to the men and the women simply sat around and looked pretty in their finery.

She had danced a little though. Mostly with Boromir but with the other members of the court too. And once with Faramir. It was him that had approached her. She was sitting at the high table next to Lord Denethor. She could view the whole of the Great Hall from here, Boromir was up ahead, surrounded by a circle of friends, drinking wine and laughing. She was looking straight at him when Faramir greeted her.

"My Lady Ismë," he said. His strong and pleasant voice knocked her out of her reverie and she turned to look at him. She was shocked at the sight of his face for he had avoided her for much of the evening. "Would you like to dance with me?"

She said nothing for a moment, only glanced at Lord Denethor beside her who was looking at Faramir pointedly and seemed to be carefully analysing Ismë's every move.

"I will, if you wish it of me," she answered slowly. He laughed a little in almost disbelief.

"Please, do not accept because it is what I want. Only accept if it is what you wish to do." His voice was steady but the response was ripe with hidden meanings – well to Ismë's ears anyway, whether Faramir meant it to be so she did not know. She eyed him suspiciously, trying to work out his intentions. If he was making a comment as to her current situation then now was not the time to do so, for there was no going back. Or perhaps he meant to convey his own opinion on the matter – there had been plenty of times when he had done things out of duty rather than of his own accord. He had once said to her that he felt as though lived to serve others only, not himself, and that he never wanted to see her do the same. At the time she was only young, but she had always remembered his words and had so far lived by them. Perhaps he was now angry at her for not giving him what he wanted and wished to express it to her.

"I do wish it," she eventually replied. With one last glance at Denethor's disapproving face she took his outstretched hand and allowed him to lead her to dance. And for once in her life she was uncomfortable around him. Conversation had always been easy between them but not now. They continued to dance in a strained silence. The dance bought them close together at times and Ismë usually would have delighted in feeling Faramir's firm but gentle touch on her waist and arm, but right now she just felt awkward. She was very conscious of not being too friendly or close to him, for fear that people might find out her secret. Every so often she would glance over to Lord Denethor or to Boromir to check whether they were watching her or not. And at times she could have sworn she saw people looking and whispering amongst themselves.

"You look beautiful tonight, you know." Faramir broke the silence, speaking softly in her ear but without looking at her as he said it. She paused before answering as the dance took them apart.

"I have been told that too many times to count," she chuckled sardonically when they were joined once more. "I'm afraid it soon starts to loose its meaning."

"But you can believe me, can you not? For no one means it as genuinely as I."

They looked at each other now as the dance ended and they stopped face to face. People began to disperse and return to their friends but the couple stayed. Faramir tried to hold Ismë's gaze but she could not help but remember Lord Denethor's accusatory eyes. She had never seen him like this before. Though he said and acted the way a loving father would to their newly wedded daughter, there was something not quite right about the looks she received from him every so often. He had grown suspicious of her ever since his plans for her had been unveiled. She was unsure as to what he thought she might do, but she had a feeling had something to do with Faramir.

Another glance across the floor at the steward confirmed her fears. He was watching. She took a step back from the captain and returned to her husband's side. It was a clear message to Faramir and she hated to deliver it, but it had to be done, lest Faramir should suffer for it later.

The rest of the night was spent following Boromir, exchanging civilities with the guests and smiling brightly. But Ismë felt like she hung off of his arm like a prized animal, ready to be shown off to everyone watching. Boromir had kept a firm hand on her back the entire night; it had barely been removed since after the ceremony. It was comforting at best, but also rather suffocating. If it weren't for the fact that it was Boromir that the hand belonged to she would have liked to run very far away. Though in truth, she did want to run away, but the fact that it was Boromir kept her from fleeing, she did not want to abandon him in his moment of happiness and importance. So she remained in this dormitory state for the rest of the evening until something was said to her that rather shook her and made her realise that she had yet to face the realities of her situation.

It was late in the evening and everyone was getting rather merry from all the wine that was being served. People were dancing and the atmosphere was one of celebration and pleasure. Her and Boromir were conversing with some members of the court when one of the older ladies that Ismë had often dined with, Lady Adwyn, made a somewhat unanticipated comment. She had approached them rather nonchalantly, interrupting the conversation as though the circle had been in silence.

"Does not young Ismë look lovely tonight, Lord Boromir?" She asked, a coy smile playing on her lips.

"Indeed she does, Lady Adwyn. Words cannot express how incredibly lucky I feel." Boromir positively beamed.

"I'm sure you will be feeling more than lucky when it comes to tonight," Lady Adwyn delighted, she had a devilish gleam in her eye and she winked at Ismë, who was standing rigid with shock. Boromir blushed and look at his feet, before laughing. There were a few jeers from the men around them and Ismë received a shrewd look from all of the ladies, for they knew what the night had in store for her.

Unfortunately it was something that Ismë had not considered. She had been more preoccupied with the lost fantasy of marrying her true love, being whisked off her feet by him and with the thought that instead she would be settling for a long companionship with Boromir, that she had not thought of the _other_ duties that might be expected of a wife.

Suddenly she was filled with fear. She had been without a mother for the most important of her younger years and what she had learnt on the subject of love-making she had got from Adora, who had in turn received a very crude description from her mother. Neither of them knew what to do or how it worked exactly. Ismë thought it was all about passion and love and she assumed that without this, it simply did not happen. For her, the clue was in the name.

The end of the evening came far too swiftly for Ismë's liking and she soon found herself being led to her new quarters in the citadel. The rooms were large and spacious, but held a cold and unfamiliar feeling that was not diminished even when the candles were lit. She was sure that in time she would regard it as home, but in her current state of mind nothing seemed reassuring. All her possessions were already in place, as was Adora who was waiting to help her change into her nightgown when they arrived.

As she entered the room Adora gave her a sympathetic look, before reaching to help her off with her dress. Ismë pulled her hair out of the way and turned away from Adora so that she could begin to undo the fastenings at the back. No words passed between the two young girls. When they were done Adora pulled Ismë into a tight embrace.

"Don't be frightened," she whispered in her ear. The sound of the door opening brought them apart hurriedly and Adora curtsied quickly to Boromir before leaving. At the door she paused to give a final look and an encouraging smile to Ismë before closing it behind her.

Seconds ticked by as minutes as the couple stood opposite one another, lost for words and without a clue of what to do. Ismë felt the need to say something but nothing seemed to want to come out of her mouth. She barely looked at Boromir but instead proceeded to remove her nightdress again, letting it slowly slide from her hand and onto the floor. Immediately she felt bare and exposed and drew her hands to her chest. Feeling conspicuous she walked to the bed and climbed in. She had decided that if this was going to happen then she wanted it to be done as soon as possible, there was to be no excuses from her, no skirting around it, she wanted it over with.

From her position on the bed she watched as Boromir undressed to his undergarments. She could not help but noticed how handsome he was, she had always known this. He had a tall and muscular body and his face held a strong jaw and soft blue eyes. Unfortunately it did not matter either way to Ismë whether he was good looking or not, for she was overtaken with nerves.

As he joined her she lay back onto the pillows, as still as a stone and as obedient as an animal, her hands clasped at her chest. He moved so that he was half on top of her and took one of her hands to his mouth and kissed it lightly. She made no movement; all she could do was look at him. She could sense the weight of his body on top of her and the feel of his hot bare chest as it pressed against her own.

Without warning he began to kiss her. It was a rough kiss, not like the one he had given her before. She could taste wine and smoke on his breath. It was not wholly unpleasant, but neither was it comforting. Before long his breaths grew deeper and quicker and his hands began to move across her body. He was slightly drunk, she could tell. And soon he was directly on top of her, pressing himself against her small body.

In years to come she would occasionally look back to this moment, but try as she might, she would remember nothing. She was both glad of this and not. At the time she had blocked out what was happening for fear of how she would react if she didn't, but at the same time she took it as another failure towards Boromir.

She did not want to be repelled by him; she did want to love him and want to receive him. She tried to convince herself that she did, but the fact that she wanted so much to forget this night proved that in reality she did not.

And so, she simply laid there and closed her mind to it.


	5. Four: Waking to Shame

Four

Waking to Shame

It was the next day and like all morning afters it started badly. Ismë had been awake most of the night; Boromir was deeply sleeping next to her on the bed. He had his back to her and she was glad of it for the last thing she wanted to do was look upon his face.

The drapes had not yet been drawn making the room still dark, but there was a small parting in them through which a strong and straight beam of sunlight came through. It tore across the room and landed on her chest. It was more than enough to wake her from her light and restless slumber. She could tell from the angle that the sun was high in the sky meaning that it was nearing midday. Her head felt slightly groggy from the mix of lack of sleep and wine from the night before. Sleep tugged at her eyes, willing them to close and for her to lie back down, but she knew she couldn't. She had been lying there all night and all she could do was think. And then try as she might to stop thinking, all she could do was think about not thinking. This vicious circle continued throughout the early hours of the morning, as did copious amounts of tossing and turning, until she finally began to doze, albeit fitfully. But as soon as that light had hit her face she was awake.

She sat up carefully, trying not to wake the sleeping man beside her. Not that there was anything to get up for. It was to be a slow and restful day after the celebrations of the night before. Her disturbed and shallow sleep now left her bleary-eyed and not in any way refreshed.

There was a chill in the air and Ismë pulled the bed sheet closer around her naked form. The candles had long since gone out and the cold winter air seeped in from under the draughty windows. It caught on her bare skin and sent prickles along her arms. She was suddenly very aware that she was wearing nothing. Memories of the previous night threatened to surface in her mind but she pushed them back down again. She took a deep breath and jumped out of bed as quickly as she could as though in the midst of a crowd of spectators. She grabbed her nightgown and pulled it over her head. Hugging her arms, she still felt exposed even though there was no one else in the room.

Movement from the bed drew her attention and she looked over to see Boromir pulling on his clothes. She smiled a half smile at him when he glanced over at her.

"Good morning," he said, standing as did so and pulling his shirt on. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did," Ismë lied. "Very well."

"I'm glad," he smiled, before walking past her, still standing stock still in the centre of the room in nought but her nightgown, and opening the curtains a little. "It's almost midday," he continued. "My Father wants us all to dine with him today, at one o'clock. You had better get ready, it's so late already."

"Yes, I had."

"I will call for Adora then, shall I?"

"Thank you."

She spoke briefly and avoided any eye contact with him. He was trying to be polite, to disguise any awkwardness between them, but it was there nonetheless. All she could think about was the previous night's actions; the touch of his hands, big and rough across her skin, the sharp prickle of his beard, the look on his face as he enjoyed her.

Sensing her discomfort, he left to find Adora, most likely in an effort to please her, for he knew Adora would be of some comfort to Ismë. Adora appeared almost momentarily. She gave a small curtsey and began to make the bed. She knew that her mistress would like her to be as normal as possible right now and she was right. As Ismë set eyes on the familiar form of her maid she could not help but think of her previous days with her as almost like a different world. She was a different person then. It was as if she had gone into that room the night before and it had travelled to a different place in a different time and now she was emerging to discover her new location. To see Adora now, in her new world and in her new persona just wasn't right.

"Did you sleep well, my Lady?" the maid said as she almost too casually plumped up the pillows on the bed.

"You're the second person to ask me that this morning, Adie," Ismë replied blankly, she was not in the mood for light conversation. She moved behind the screen in the corner of the room and changed into the dress Adie had picked out for her. It was a particularly beautiful, deep purple silk dress that Ismë father had sent to her a year before. She came out again so that Adora could do it up; she still had not looked at her face yet.

"This is your favourite dress, my Lady," Adora commented. "I picked it out especially. You once said to me that when ever you wear it you feel wonderful."

"I don't feel particularly wonderful right now, I'm afraid, Adie."

"I know." She paused and laid a hand on the arm of her mistress. "I know," she repeated. "But you soon will."

Before long it was time to join together for the feast, a continuation of the previous day's celebrations. The whole city was in a state of festivity at the occasion and it was set to continue for some time. Whilst some regarded the event with great importance, others were merely glad of the relaxation time, for the city was usually a bustle of people and animals, trading and marketplaces.

In the lower regions of the city there were great parties with plenty of wine-drinking and dancing and general merriment, but in the citadel the most prestigious members of the court now sat far too dignified around a table in the Great Hall.

Ismë just felt silly. She could not see the point in celebrating a forced marriage – for what happiness was it bringing? She wondered if everyone sitting around that table knew that she had not wanted to marry Boromir. She wondered if they even cared. It was doubtful. Most of them were men, not understanding or caring about the thoughts and feelings of women, seeing them as playthings to use and manipulate as they will, in order to meet their own ends. And the women, they knew their place. Lord Denethor always made sure of that. His wife had been obedient and doting and he expected all the rest of the women to do the same.

Ismë had entered the room with Boromir once everyone else had been seated. As the feast was in honour of them they were to arrive last. The occupants of the table stood as they walked in, bowing their heads in acknowledgement as they took their places either side of Lord Denethor at the head of the table.

Ismë was used to public appearances, of having lots of attention put on her, especially the attention of these faces in particular, for she had grown up with each member of the court around her. But right now she detested the feeling of every eye being upon her, burning through her to her inner core. They wormed their way inside her, bringing up every hidden thought and secret, everything that she had tried to suppress. They all knew what she had done, what had been done to her, and she hated it. The shame, the humiliation of everyone knowing. Especially Faramir.

He sat beside her, something that she was thankful for so she did not have to face him. He was quiet, speaking little to Boromir or herself. It was almost too painful for Ismë. She felt as if she had betrayed him. Right then she would have done anything to take back what had happened, she felt so, so ashamed.

She tried to imagine his thoughts, but could not decipher them from his words and actions. He was as he always was, gentle and kind-hearted. He gave nothing away as usual.

Ismë had lost her appetite. She could not join in with the polite conversation going on around her. She was overwhelmed by the state of it all; the laughter of the room rang harshly about her, the prying eyes continued to sear through her, thoughts raged in her head, repeating themselves over and over again like the ominous beat of a drum. She had to escape soon, lest it would drive her mad.

Sanctuary came after a long period of emptiness for Ismë. For several months she endured the arduous task of pretence. It was not Boromir that disheartened her, quite the opposite in fact; she frequently wished that he were around to rescue her from her situation. She had thought that if nothing else she would at least have his company with which to console herself with, but he was seldom around. A few weeks after the wedding he had been called away to Osgiliath, which was once again on the brink of collapse. He sometimes came back, if only for a few days to update his father on the situation there, but more often than not he sent another soldier as a messenger. He was away for weeks at a time and Ismë found it difficult to fit into her new role without his steady hand to guide her.

It was not as though she had nothing to do, but more that she grew more and more weary of doing these things. For most of her life she had filled her time with making herself more accomplished or entertaining and charming those around her, whether they were members of the court at her home or here in Minas Tirith it mattered not, for her role there was as it was now. Except now, as the wife of a man of such high rank, she was even more put upon.

There were endless amounts of people to visit, to socialise with, to smile at and pretend to be happy, whilst all the while she was desperate to get away. Ismë was not exactly sure how she got through each day. With the absence of any physical pain there was nothing to do but to simply continue on with it, hoping for some future reprieve.

And, of course, there was Faramir. Or rather, there wasn't. Though he had not followed his brother to Osgiliath, Faramir was rarely seen by any one in the citadel. He was in charge of a small company of men who patrolled the western lands of Gondor and its villages. They were quickly accessible by horseback and so only a short ride away, meaning that in theory he should regularly return home, but as captain of the company he insisted that they should be gone for long lengths of time. This was much to the anger and disappointment of his men, who had families they wished to see back in the city, but they trusted their captain and were faithful to him, and so they followed him nonetheless.

This was a great hurt to Ismë. After the guilt she had felt after the wedding towards him, it was yet another wound to her that he would so obviously avoid her. Not that she could blame him, she was sure she would do the same if their situations were reversed, but it was upsetting all the same.

And as for Lord Denethor, he had gone from being a doting father to being suspicious of her every move. She still did not know why, it was as if he was just waiting for her to rebel against all this. A ticking time bomb. He was nice enough to her, exchanging polite conversation and such like, but at the same time something had drastic changed between them. He snapped at her more, made subtle comments about how she wasn't doing certain things right. Ismë knew the reasoning behind most of his frustration towards her though – he thought she would be pregnant by now. And indeed, she should be; she could not understand why she wasn't, but she was in no rush herself. She had just become accustomed to being a wife, having a child would throw her very far off course.

Ismë was an extremely patient young woman, but as with everyone she had a breaking point. Hers came when she was sitting with Lady Adwyn, the woman who had so savagely reminded her of her wedding night duties. She had invited herself over and Ismë could not refuse – she did not want to seem rude or disobliging, even though it was her home, but the older woman intimidated her greatly. Lady Adwyn had been talking at her for a whole hour now but had managed to say little that would interest Ismë.

"It seems so quiet around here with all the men gone away," the Lady lamented.

"It does," Ismë replied. "And gone for such a long time as well."

"Well, troubled times call for such sacrifices. How long has your husband been away for now?"

"Nearly two months it has been."

Lady Adwyn seemed shocked. "I did not realise the situation in Osgiliath was so dire."

Ismë knew better, Lady Adwyn's husband was second captain to the company that Boromir led. He had been injured a few months before and so had not joined them on this expedition but Ismë knew he had contact with the company and was updated regularly on the situation. And also that Lady Adwyn took a great interest in the subject of male politics.

"It is not," she answered after a moment. "But Captain Boromir is so dedicated to his men that he does not want to leave them just now. I believe they are expecting another attack sometime soon."

"Oh, my dear," Lady Adwyn took Ismë's hand that was resting on her lap rather forcefully and stroked it, she held an expression of sympathy on her face, but one that Ismë could not help but take as being insincere. "You must be so very worried. But try not to take it too personally."

Ismë frowned, unsure of the Lady's meaning. She continued: "After my husband and I were married he was away for weeks at an end but it was certainly nothing to do with my abilities as a wife. I am sure that you're doing your very best to please him." She smiled, sickly sweet.

Ismë positively fumed. She could feel the heat rise up from her neck and into her cheeks. For a moment she thought she might actually hit her in an attempt wipe the pretentious smirk off of her face. Instead she let go of the woman's hand and smiled falsely back, feigning reassurance, whilst gripping the edge of her chair to release some of the suppressed anger.

"Still, Captain Faramir is home. And that must be some comfort to you. You were always very close." Ismë's head shot up at this, ignoring the rather impertinent afterthought Lady Adwyn had added. Ismë did her best not to look too affected by the news.

"He is? Oh, I did not know."

"I am surprised that you don't! He's been back for some days now. You are usually found in each other's company. Though I suppose that it not acceptable now that you are married." She was teasing Ismë and quite blatantly at that. Ismë knew that she did not like her, not that she minded at all, but why Lady Adwyn wanted to go out of her way to mock her so openly she did not know.

Ismë only laughed a little and nodded her head in an attempt to gratify her. The woman then had no ammunition seeing as Ismë had not given rise to her comments and so the conversation moved on. Lady Adwyn continued talking on and on but Ismë's mind was elsewhere.

She was not sure quite how to take this news that Faramir was back. On one hand she was extremely happy that he was back and that she would finally have some company, but on the other she was quite hurt that he had not come to see her. She had not seen him properly since before the wedding.

Lady Adwyn did not stay for much longer. Ismë had stopped politely replying to her long before and she soon got fed up of the lack of attention. Ismë could not wait until she left. She watched as she rounded the corner towards her own home before she grabbed her cloak and went in the opposite direction. She followed the corridors and winding stairs until she came out of the citadel. Crossing a large stone courtyard, she soon reached the stables. This was where Faramir could usually be found, whether it be out in the courtyard training or in the stables tending to his horse.

This time he was with his horse. He turned as Ismë approached, senses finely attuned to the movements of others after years of soldiering. She stood in the doorway, suddenly losing all words and purpose as she saw him. He sighed and turned away again, returning to his previous actions.

"You're back," she simply stated.

"Yes," was all he said in reply. He continued to groom the horse, giving her only a glance of acknowledgement.

"In fact, you've been back for days now, or so I've been told."

"Yes, I have."

"Well, will you not speak to me? Why did you not tell me that you had returned?"

Her anger was dominating her happiness at seeing him now. She could not understand why he would ignore her like this. For a short moment she thought that he might be upset by the wedding but then again she had never known whether he truly loved her in return, she could only wish that he did. She was not sure if she was just fitting his actions into her own fantasy, or whether that really was the case. This aside they had always been close and she was always the first to know that he was back. He made no attempt to calm her or to give any kind of reason, only stood there and watched.

"Well?" she continued. "Did you not think that I would wish to see you? Did you not think that I might enjoy some company after being trapped up in that damn house with your Father for months on end?"

He set his attention on her at this. "I know how hard it must have been."

"No, no you don't!" Ismë was getting very angry now. Weeks and weeks worth of pent up frustration was coming out now. She did not mean to be so angry at him, it was just a small thing that he had done, but she had been unable to express her feelings at any time other than this. He was the last drop of water that made the barrel overflow. "You don't understand at all! You bear the worst of your Father's character I give you that, but at the end you can walk away if you wish. I am trapped up there with no where to go and no one to see, except him. And that's all I will have for the rest of my life."

She was on the brink of tears now. He tried to reach out to her in an attempt at comfort, but she pulled away. She leaned back against the doorframe and put her head in her hands. Then she felt his touch on her arm, gently pulling it away from her face, she resisted.

"Ismë," he soothed. "I am sorry. I was not thinking."

He put a hand behind her neck and pulled her into his arms. The tears came rushing out now, she could not be angry anymore, not with him anyway.

"I'm so glad you're back," she whispered against his chest.

"So am I," he returned.

"Please don't leave again soon."

He made no answer at this, only stroked her hair and pulled her to his chest tighter. She relaxed into his embrace and only then did all the anger and sorrow that she had felt over the last few months finally leave her. Her sanctuary was here at last.


	6. Five: An Intangible Idea

Five

An Intangible Idea

Unfortunately, Ismë's newly returned sanctuary was short lived. With the return of Faramir, Lord Denethor's temper became shorter and shorter. He could not speak two words to Faramir or Ismë without deriding them in some way or another. To Faramir it could be all manner of things, for nothing he did seemed to please his father, but to Ismë it was his desperation for her to give his son an heir.

Boromir returned too, a few days after Faramir. The situation in Osgiliath had been stable and the city was secure, at least for the time being, and so he had come home. With Boromir back Ismë had no excuse for not getting pregnant. Weeks went by and still nothing. She talked little with Boromir about it, he did not seem to have as much impatience as his father, but she knew that he was expecting a child soon. To Faramir she would not breathe a word; they never spoke of her marriage or anything to do with her relationship with Boromir. It was almost as if they carried on as before. It was only with Adora that she could show her true feelings.

She was not sure if she wanted to have a child just yet. She was still so young and so newly married. She knew that most new brides fell pregnant just weeks after their marriage, so she could not help but be glad that she hadn't yet. But at the same time, the pressure from Lord Denethor for her to conceive was getting greater and greater. She was not sure how long she could put up with it.

Nevertheless, as always, she did. And she did her very best to fall pregnant, against all of her own wishes. Every night she shared a bed with Boromir and allowed him to have her. Soon she became accustomed to the act and, though she was far from enjoying it, she took solace in the fact that she pleased him, for that was all she ever wanted to do. It seemed a strange way of living, but it before long it became normal to Ismë.

She knew that one day she would have to fall pregnant and though she hoped that it would not be anytime soon, the day had to dawn at some point. And eventually, it did.

She woke as normal, with the soft mornings light falling on her face and the figure of her husband sleeping next to her. She sat up and instantly felt strange. Something had changed inside her, perhaps not all of a sudden, but steadily overtime, culminating in this moment. She knew straight away that she was pregnant, she had suspected it for days now. She put a hand to her stomach, feeling it flutter with nausea.

Ismë was not quite sure how to feel. She had never given much thought to actually being with child. It had been on her mind often enough but it was just an idea, distant and intangible. Now it was real, something was growing there. And a tiny person, at that. It was difficult to grasp, she still could not believe it, looking at her flat stomach. But it was true.

"I have a baby inside me," she whispered aloud. She laughed softly to herself. The man at her side woke slowly at the quiet sound. He turned round to see her sitting, clutching her stomach.

"What is the matter?" He said, his brow creasing with worry. Ismë said nothing. He looked down at her hands. "Are you…?"

All she could do was nod. She did not need a physician to confirm it; she knew it for certain now. She had been late anyway, this validated it for her. Maybe she had known it for a while but was only now accepting it. Boromir sat up quickly and pulled himself up next to her. "Wow," he sighed, barely believing it. He settled his hand on top of hers, which was still resting on her stomach. She wanted to pull away, but she did not. She couldn't ruin his moment. This was his child as much it was hers.

It was their child.

Ismë had not seen Lord Denethor's face look so bright in an age. He looked on her like a goddess for she had truly blessed him when she told him of the baby. And he was not the only one who was happy. The fair news was met with a great joy that spread throughout the whole of the city. Everybody wished to express their congratulations and their blessings upon Ismë and her little unborn child. Though to Ismë it was still not yet a child, it was still an idea. It did not seem possible that she might be carrying a real, live baby. It was not until she began growing larger that the realisation properly hit. And even then it still seemed unbelievable.

Hundreds of questions played around in her head. Would it be a boy or a girl? What would it look like? Would it look like her? Or like Boromir? They were questions she imagined every expectant mother wondered but it was different now that she was experiencing it herself. To others the questions seemed trivial, aimless musings of a half-hearted nature. But now they were so important. She would contemplate them for hours.

Sometimes she discussed it with Boromir too. He would always bring it up, put his hand on her swollen stomach and speak to the small being inside her in a wondrous, far away voice. He never quite got used to the idea. It was at times like these that she desperately wished she loved him. Loved him more than she did. Loved him as she loved Faramir. She could not deny her secret desire to have him lying beside her, to have his warm, strong hands stroking her stomach instead of Boromir's. But nor did she wish to acknowledge them, to recognise them. Because recognising them felt like a betrayal. She may as well have gone and lain in Faramir's bed, for that it was it felt like she was doing. It only served to make her feel all the more guilty for not feeling the way she ought to towards him.

Yet it was nonetheless there in the back of her mind, always there, perhaps biding its time. For sure it was bound to come out in some way, one day. Ismë was unsure how or when or where, but it would happen, she knew that for certain. And so she lived in the shadow of it, a darkness within her, always reminding her of her inadequacy.

But, such as life, the world carried on just the same. The months went by and Ismë grew larger and larger. As she entered the last month of her pregnancy the whole city sprung alive again. There were endless preparations to be made and everyone was in an excitement over the coming birth. It was a momentous moment for the city; her child would be the future steward of Gondor, the highest position in the whole of the realm, second to the King, of course.

But, after all this time, she had not seen Faramir. He had left again, staying only for a few weeks before riding out again. Ismë had said a brief goodbye; she knew he was uncomfortable having just found out the news, so she had kept it short, even though it pained her deeply to see him go again. Unfortunately, despite the stable situation in Osgiliath, there was trouble brewing in the south, an uprising of sorts - Ismë was not sure of the details - and Faramir and his men had been sent to calm it. In fact, there was always some kind of problem going on that required either one of the men, Gondor was a troubled place. Rumours were always being whispered of distant evils, not just from the eastern lands but from all around them. The borders were constantly patrolled, as well as the land to the east. They lived constantly in the shadow of Mordor, expecting an attack at any moment. They were a realm gripped by fear, teetering on the brink of collapse, either by destruction or by sheer insanity of being caught in this state of purgatory. But of course, life continued as normal. Boromir would have usually gone too, but Lord Denethor had insisted that he be home for the birth of his son. And so Faramir had been away from the city for some months. If they were gone for a long time it usually meant that things were growing worse, but no one seemed to be thinking about that. The prospect of a new heir was important enough for the people of Gondor to forget about the outside world and Ismë did not blame them for being distracted. It was hard living with the prospect of open war; the men were away so often and the people were under such an immense threat already that it was difficult to imagine things getting any worse, but of course, it could, and one day it would, so they would make the most of these quieter days.

Besides, Ismë was pleased that she had some sort of purpose in the city. It didn't matter when she was younger and could do as she pleased around the citadel, entertaining herself and the two brothers, but now that she was older she seemed to have lost this freedom. It was all politics now, feasts and events and discussions, none of which she had a particularly prominent role in. She was expected to stand by, looking pretty and young and refreshing to the guests. Lord Denethor always insisted that she was there, though she was not sure why.

But now, she felt like she was useful for something. Now she was a vessel for the future steward, a role that came with little appreciation but that was important nevertheless. Some may discard this as insignificant, as a silly girlish thought, one of someone who was desperately trying to justify their life and in a way, this was true. But did that matter? Did it matter when it made Ismë feel just that little bit better about her life in Gondor? Almost a year ago her life had been turned upside down. Her plans and hopes and dreams had been smashed by one man's decision, a decision that was not really his to make, and now she had been left to pick up the pieces. To someone who had everything they wanted it was insignificant, but to someone who was desperately clutching for some kind of purpose in life, it was like striking gold.

Ismë's desperation was down to two factors - two factors that, despite the fact that she was potentially giving Lord Denethor exactly what he wanted, remained ever present and prominent in her life. The first was that damned city. With its high walls and tight walkways, it was like a great stone fortress. All the hope and wonder it had given Ismë when she first came had all but disappeared. Now it only suffocated her. She was rarely allowed out of the citadel – that was the crux of the matter really, her trips into the lower sections were blessings and she was sure the feeling would soon dissipate should she walk there more often. But without friends or the brothers for company, the frustration of it was slowly driving her out of her mind.

The other was, of course, the pressure from her Father-in-Law to give his son an heir. Now that she was pregnant it still did not seem to change his attitude towards her. It was as if he did not quite trust her. The almost father-daughterly bond between them was slowly slipping away. He was suspicious of her; it had even crossed Ismë's mind that perhaps he did not believe that she was with child when they had first announced it. But even now that the evidence was plain to see, he still treated her with a slight disdain, like she might betray him and all of a sudden reveal that it was all a lie. Or like she might give birth to a girl.

As much as Ismë fought it, this was something that scared her immensely. It was not that she did not want a girl – she could not care less what sex the child was, she would love it just the same, as any mother would – no, she was more scared of what Lord Denethor would do. But luckily, the thought rarely crossed her mind. So sure was Lord Denethor and in fact, the whole of the court, that she would give birth to a son, that she quickly began to believe it herself. Either way, Ismë knew she would be happy. Perhaps once the baby came she would gain the purpose that she so craved.

Sometimes Ismë wondered if life ever went the way you wanted it to go. The day of her first child's birth was one of those times. It had started like any other; she'd dressed, needing Adora's help more than ever at this stage in her pregnancy, and prepared for a day that she expected to be no different from the one before. Most of her clothes barely fit now, she was but a few weeks away from her due date and Adora was constantly altering her dresses to accommodate her still growing stomach.

Then she'd spent the day with the other ladies of the court, strolling around the citadel, which was most impractical for her, she'd had to stop for breath and rest every now so often, which she was sure had irritated the other women who seemed rather unsympathetic to her situation. But she was glad of her situation at times such as these, it meant she could get away with saying very little and no one would question her for it.

It was early September by now, but the air was still warm and the sky had an autumnal glow. The wind drew from the West, bringing a balmy breeze and promise that, out there, somewhere, there was a world untouched by the evil of the East. Lord Denethor had called them all to dine with him. Faramir was home, having successfully subdued the unrest in the western lands for the time being, and so they were all gathered in the Great Hall. The atmosphere was somewhat tense. Lord Denethor sat at the head of the table, having not improved his mood for the sake of the company seated with them, with Boromir and Faramir either side of him. A rather awkward Ismë sat next to Boromir, barely reaching the table, her belly ballooning out before her. She felt exhausted from the day and wanted nothing more than to go back to her room and sleep. Boromir had positively burst with pride as she had entered – which was not a rare sight, he did so whenever she entered anywhere – but she was feeling awful. She felt bloated, uncomfortable and clumsy – trying to travel from one place to the next whilst nearly nine months pregnant, she found, was no easy task. In the corner musicians played softly and candles flickered about them, neither of which did anything to quell the tension between the four.

"Ismë," Lord Denethor had said sternly, breaking the stony silence halfway through the meal. "Eat your food, it will go cold."

She had indeed been picking at her plate all evening. And suddenly, Ismë felt about five years old again, being chastised by her Father. Family had been a strange issue in her life, especially lately, and now she found it extremely odd that Lord Denethor was playing the role of Father again.

"I'm not very hungry, my Lord. I'm afraid I'm feeling a little tired," she replied. All eyes were on her as she spoke. She didn't know why, but suddenly she flushed, heat rose to her face and she began to breathe heavily. She could not fathom why she would suddenly become embarrassed now.

"What's the matter with you, child? Do not be so selfish, you must eat for the baby, if not for yourself."

"Of course." She managed a slight smile.

"It must be due soon enough?" It was Faramir who spoke, his voice calm and polite. Ismë did not think he had ever really spoken to her about the baby, not for a long time anyway, and clearly the others felt the same as they looked up at his words. Ismë's face flushed again at the question and the feel of his eyes on her face. It had been so long since she had spoken to him, properly spoken to him, alone, she realised.

"Yes, it's but three weeks, little brother," Boromir interjected, answering before she had a chance to do so herself. He was beaming, yet again, Ismë had never seen a smile so bright or so big. "Soon you shall be an uncle," he laughed.

The sound of his deep laugh was infectious, as always; Faramir chuckled in return.

"When do your family visit again, Ismë?" Faramir asked, once the soft laughter had begun to dissipate.

Again, Ismë was caught unawares, she had no idea when they were to come and see her. On more than one occasion had she questioned Lord Denethor on the matter but he had not yet given her a solid response.

"I'm not sure…" she began, looking to Denethor for some kind of answer or prompt, he gave her nothing.

"It has been so long since they were last here. They must be very eager to see you," Faramir continued.

"You have told your Mother of the child, have you not?" Boromir asked.

"Yes, of course, many months ago now. She said she wanted to visit, but I have not heard from her since."

"Perhaps you could write to her again tonight," Boromir suggested. "She ought to be here for the birth, and your Father and the others too."

"Yes, perhaps I will," Ismë replied, her mood lifting at the thought of seeing her family again. "My Mother always said she couldn't wait for the day when I had a daughter of my own."

Lord Denethor stopped still at this, clearly thinking that she might tempt fate at the very mention of the word 'daughter'. His cutlery clattered loudly against his plate as he set it down with great force, almost overcome with annoyance.

"But of course, my Father prayed that I be only blessed with sons," Ismë hastily added, her confidence lessening with every word. "My Mother had a boy first, after all…"

Lord Denethor shifted restlessly in his seat, his hands shaking and mouth trembling. "Give my son an heir and then, and only then, will you see your precious family."

He almost spat the last few words, his voice cold and strong. Ismë had never seen him so angry – his face twisted into an ugly look of disgust, his eyes wide and glaring at her as if she had just stood up and slapped him around the face, which was exactly what she felt like doing. But instead, she said nothing, only stared at him – half out of disbelief and half out of sheer exhaustion, she knew arguing with him was fruitless.

"Father, please," Faramir had said, trying to placate the situation before it escalated. But Lord Denethor was having none of it.

"You will hold your tongue, boy! This is none of your concern," he returned, scathingly.

Anger burned inside of Ismë at this. She was perfectly used to Lord Denethor's comments and snide remarks about her, but she could never grow used to the way he spoke to Faramir. Never would she stand by and let him treat him that way, his own son.

"Don't speak to him like that!" she exclaimed, rising from her seat suddenly.

"I will speak to him however I please, he is _my_ son. Perhaps soon enough you will know how that feels." Never had he voiced these opinions so openly before. It had always been a subtle hint, a slight remark about the importance of a woman providing an heir, but now it was coming out full force. He was not holding back. The suspense was no doubt killing him. Their present conversation was knocking him over the edge.

Ismë opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She raised a hand to her brow and it came away slick with sweat. Heat rose once again to her cheeks and her head swam all of a sudden. She wildly grabbed for the chair behind her for support, but it was out of her grasp. There was something wrong, she knew it.

The next thing she knew she was doubled over, a sharp pain radiating through her enlarged stomach, up from her pelvic region. She could not help but cry out, the pain was near unbearable. Her hands grabbed wildly. The pain had passed almost as soon as it had arrived but Ismë was dazed from it. Her head was still dizzy and she couldn't keep her feet. She was going to faint.

Strong hands gripped her from both sides; there were frantic whispers all about her. She struggled to breath, each breath was too quick, too shallow. And soon enough the world turned black.

**I apologise a thousand times for the long wait for this next chapter. I kind of got out of swing with my writing from a combination of writer's block and a lack of spare time but I had a fresh wave of inspiration and enthusiasm after watching the movies again lately. I hope this satisfies you for now. The next chapter should follow fairly shortly as I'm on a bit of roll with this story now.**

**Hope you liked it. Oh and also, I want to apologise for the lack of action and dialogue at the start of this chapter, I know there's a **_**lot**_** of continuous prose there. Unfortunately, it's essential to the plot of the story (obviously, otherwise I wouldn't include it…) and a lot has to happen before the war of the Ring and before we can get to the real meat of the story. But anyway, hope you understand and enjoy it nonetheless.**

**Thank you for all your reviews and support,**

**Youronlydoll x**


	7. Six: When the Inevitable Happens

Six

When the Inevitable Happens

The moments that followed Ismë's momentary blackness were all a blur. All she could remember was fear and pain and voices.

She had given a lot of thought to the birth of her child, having spoken to many of the other women of the court about child birth, she had a vague idea of what to expect, but nothing could quite prepare her for the real event.

She had surfaced again to find herself lying on her back on the cold stone floor of the Great Hall. She must have only been unconscious for a few minutes. Her head felt heavy and her eyes couldn't quite adjust. Boromir and Faramir each stood over her; Boromir with his hand clutching hers, whilst Faramir crouched beside her from an appropriate distance.

"The baby…" she breathed. "What's happening?"

"I think this is it, this must be it," Boromir replied incredulously, half in disbelief of it himself.

"But it's too early! It can't happen now."

The pain in her stomach came again. And again she had cried out. She was panicking, this was far too early, she wasn't ready yet. The men around her were just as helpless, lost as to what to do, panic had overcome them. It was Faramir who took charge, calling to the guard at the door to fetch the physician. Boromir had looked at him, almost for instruction, the roles of the brothers reversing for a few moments while Boromir was overcome with emotion, his eyes wide and mouth open.

"Let's get her to her chambers," said Faramir, his voice firm. He placed his hand on Ismë's arm in order to begin to lift her, but almost immediately took it back again, as if suddenly realising what he was doing. He shuffled back a little on his feet and gestured to Boromir to lift her instead.

Lord Denethor only watched the scene from behind, holding a candle and peering down at them all from his standing position. He did not follow when they carried her out and through the labyrinth of hallways until they reached her room, preferring to watch and wait and judge instead.

Once there, Boromir laid her gently down on the bed just as the physician arrived. Adora followed swiftly behind, rushing to Ismë's side and rearranging the bed linen, pulling back the heavy duvet. The men turned away as Adora began to remove her mistress's dress and replace it with her nightgown. They were still at a loss as to how to act, Ismë could tell – Faramir especially.

"I should leave," he had said, bowing his head and averting his eyes, just as the physician took to examining Ismë on the bed. Then he had turned to his brother and clapped him on the shoulder, smiling broadly. "Good luck," he laughed.

Ismë did not want him to leave, but at the same time, she was reluctant for anyone to see her in her present condition – one which would steadily worsen as time went on. She also knew that she would be confined to this bed for hours and she could not subject anyone to living the whole thing with her. Not that it was in any way appropriate for Faramir to be by her side now. She had Adie there anyway, who else did she need?

But as another wave of contraction, much more painful this time, overtook Ismë, a cold fear gripped her. This was really happening; she was giving birth, right now. It was scary thought and an event that she was not wholly prepared for. This was meant to be happening in a few weeks time – what did that mean? Was the baby still well?

"It's too early…" she whispered, recovering from the contraction and trying to catch her breath.

"There's nothing to worry about, sometimes it happens, everything will be fine," the physician reassured her. He turned to Boromir: "It will be a long time until the baby is here, you might want to wait with your brother."

Boromir stood there for a moment, as if deciding what he wanted to do. After a moment, he gave a small but reluctant nod and turned to walk out of the room.

"No, wait," Ismë called, unsure of what she was doing. "Please… stay with me."

"Of course," Boromir replied, moving swiftly to the side of the bed and taking her outstretched hand.

"I do not want to go through it alone," she whispered in his ear, as he knelt at her side by the bed.

And it was the truth that she spoke. It wasn't a lie to make him believe that she wanted him there, to make him feel useful; she truly wanted him beside her. It was rather selfish of her, she was not sure if this constituted 'leading him on' but at that moment, she did not care, she was so very frightened.

She was frightened of the pain, frightened for her baby and frightened of Lord Denethor and what the future would hold once the baby was here. A future that was just hours away now.

As expected, the labour was long and painful, it was the early hours of the morning when it was over and there was but a small and soft light falling through the window. But Boromir had stayed at Ismë's side the whole time, much to the horror of Lord Denethor and to the surprise of everyone else. After all, it was not really expected that he would wish to be there, not for the whole time anyway. But she had asked and he had stayed, holding her hand and stroking her hair.

And then the end had come. Just as Ismë thought she could not bear it anymore, just as she thought she could not spare another ounce of energy to give one last push. But she did. She was crying, tears rolled down her face, obscuring her vision, she threw back her head and cried long and loud. She could hear Adie's voice telling her it was almost over. She could hear Boromir's soft words whispered in her ear, though she could not make out what he said. She thought of nothing, her mind was blank; it was only the pain, the hardship, the baby.

And then there it was. Warm and real in front of her. Crying, breathing and _living_. No more an intangible idea, but a person. She heard the sound of laughter at her side, deep and joyful.

"You did it," a voice cried at her side, before kissing her swiftly on the head. And she was happy then. Maybe it was because the pain was gone and it was all over and she could sleep, maybe it was because she now had a child, something to call her own, some kind of purpose in her life. Or maybe it was because of the man at her side. She did not know. All she could do was lay back her head and bask in the wonder of it all.

Moments later, the babe was in her arms, wrapped in a blanket and declaring its presence to the world. Fresh tears pricked at her eyes and travelled down the cheeks, but she smiled still. Even a soft laughter escaped her lips as she looked from her husband to the new being in her arms.

"I did it," she echoed, her voice no more than a soft sigh.

Ismë did not think that anything could ruin this moment for her – not the dull aching pain in her lower regions that was a hangover from the birth, not the not the exhaustion that wracked her body, not even the thought that the man who's child she'd just given birth to was not the one she wanted it to be. But something, or rather someone, could. That someone was Lord Denethor. She had almost forgotten about him in all her pain and exhaustion and happiness, for he had not once put in an appearance. But she knew that he would ruin it, as soon as those three words were whispered to her. To Ismë they were joyous words, words that she did not wish to be tainted by the prospect of the Steward's reaction.

"It's a girl," Adie had whispered to her, almost in awe of the sight that was before her eyes of mother and baby. "She's beautiful."

"A girl…" Ismë had repeated. She looked to Boromir then, expecting to see the disappointment present on his face, but there was none. There was only happiness, joy and pride. His already wide smile only broadened even more at the news. And Ismë could not help but smile back. She knew now, that however Lord Denethor reacted, it did not matter. Only their opinions mattered and Ismë was certain that they would never, ever forsake their daughter.

"I'd better tell my Father," Boromir said, rising from the bed and leaving the room, just as Adie finished changing the bed sheets and Ismë settled into an upright position, giving one last look at his new born child before he left.

A sudden panic filled Ismë then. Despite her new found revelation that she did not care what Lord Denethor thought, she unfortunately could not help but be more than a little scared of him. He was indeed a powerful man, after all. And a man who, Ismë was fairly certain, was slowly but surely descending into madness, fuelled by paranoia and the fear of the destruction of his beloved city.

Moments after Boromir left, Lord Denethor burst through the door to their chambers.

He stood at the foot of the bed taking in the scene before him. She had failed him, that was what he was thinking, it was written all over his face and everyone in the room could see it. Ismë felt the sinking feeling of inadequacy creep over her and looked down at the child in her arms for comfort. Seconds later, Boromir and Faramir followed, standing behind him, braced as if scared of what he might do next. Faramir glanced to the bed and Ismë met his eyes for instant. His face was so full of love then that Ismë thought her heart might just burst then and there. He gave her a slight smile, so sad and full of things that might have been, and turned back to his father.

"A girl," Denethor stated after a moment – as if it wasn't enough just to show his disappointment on his face, it had to be present in his voice too.

"Yes," Ismë responded, defiantly. "She is a girl."

"Father," Faramir pleaded. "Can't you see she's exhausted?"

Lord Denethor turned to him and never had Ismë seen a look more menacing. His lips trembled as he gathered the words to throw back at his son. But then Boromir stepped in, diffusing the situation as he always did.

"Father, Faramir is right. Now is not the time for these ridiculous words. I must ask that you leave."

The whole room watched in wonder. There had been few times when Boromir had defied his father. But his voice was firm and his face resolute. Lord Denethor turned to glare at Ismë and the baby one more time before sweeping away. Ismë gave the two brothers a small smile of thanks as they approached the bed.

"I think she's perfect," Faramir said, looking down at his niece's small and sleeping form, no doubt trying to undo the damage that Lord Denethor's words had done.

"So do I," Ismë replied, both men relaxed somewhat at her words, clearly glad to see that their Father had not upset her too much. "And no one will ever make me think differently."

Ismë slept after that. She did not wake up until the day was almost over and the sky outside was black. She woke to find Boromir beside her. He was awake for it was not yet midnight and was laying on his front, gazing at the spot between them.

There lay their newborn child, sleeping soundly, breathtakingly beautiful in all her innocence. Instinctively, Ismë reached over pulled the blanket up over the child's bare legs.

Then she simply lay there, like Boromir, and watched the extraordinary sight before her.

"We have a child," Boromir stated, after a long pause of silence, his voice full of wonder. Ismë looked over to him, barely able to tear her eyes away from her daughter, and smiled. Neither could quite believe that it had actually happened.

"You are a father," Ismë replied, tone equally as disbelieving. She giggled lightly. "And I, a mother."

Boromir moved to put his hand on the baby's stomach. It rose and fell with each delicate breath the small babe took. Ismë watched, marvelling at the sight of Boromir's hand, so large on the tiny body of the child.

"What shall her name be?" Boromir asked. Ismë lay in silence for a moment, then turned onto her front to mirror him.

"Éda," Ismë announced, a moment later. "After my mother."

"Éda," Boromir repeated, as if to make it official, real.

It was an obvious choice and Ismë's heart felt heavy as she voiced it. Now her mother had missed the two most important moments of her life – her marriage and the birth of her first child. How many more life changing events would occur before she saw her again? And how many of her family's had she herself missed?

But she could not think of that now, this was their moment and whilst she could do nothing about the situation with her family, she had to concentrate on the present. Just then, her heart swelled with love, not just for the child but for her husband too. Despite the long sleep, she was emotionally exhausted, still. But the emotions kept on coming, overwhelming her. She fought back the urge to cry.

Instead, tentatively, she moved her hand to touch Boromir's long fingers as they caressed Éda's soft skin. She could not remember the last time she had touched him like this – been so willingly intimate with him – perhaps she had never done it. Her finger tips brushed his hand, feather-light, and his eyes shifted from Éda to her.

"I'm glad it's you," she whispered.

He smiled back and entwined her fingers further with his. And Ismë was happy again. For, even though she had given him a daughter and not a son, she felt she had done right by him.

For this moment, she felt truly deserving of his love.


	8. Seven: A Glorious Sight

Seven

A Glorious Sight

Life in the court of Lord Denethor was difficult. His increasingly prevalent and violent mood swings meant that everyone was constantly on edge. The days were rigid, defined by a routine that was never broken. Lord Denethor was extremely strict on hierarchy – on knowing your place. This was something that Ismë found particularly difficult. The values put upon her in childhood still stayed with her – she had after all spent twelve strongly influenced years growing up in her Father's rather liberal and relaxed court. So her place among the court was something she struggled with greatly.

Her marriage to Boromir had somewhat promoted her, she was all of a sudden regarded with more respect than before, however of course, with this came more responsibility. But it was not as though Ismë was told what she had to do. People treated her as if they were forever waiting for her to do something, they looked at her expectantly. Maybe they were waiting for her to fail, for this was what she feared the most anyway. She had no way of knowing what they wanted her to do, though she was judged nonetheless, and to ask what they wanted of her would be a failure in itself. She went about life as before, acting and thinking the way she did before she was married and before she had Éda. But so far, what Ismë had managed to gather was that she was unsuccessful in the role of wife.

For one thing, she had given birth to a girl. Somehow the body that she had always relied upon had betrayed her. She had so wished to please her new husband, but it seemed that part of her still wanted to rebel. But no, that was too harsh - that was barely her voice speaking, but theirs instead. She loved her new daughter more than anything.

Sometimes Ismë got like that, sometimes she almost believed them. Or him, she should say. For it was Lord Denethor who was infecting her, infecting everyone, with his poisonous words. But then she would look upon Éda's face, the sweet, sweet face of her little girl, and all thoughts would disappear. Or perhaps she would see Boromir with her, cradling the little baby in his arms, hushing her, gazing at her as if at any moment she might disappear into thin air and his arms would be empty.

Ismë loved these moments. She especially loved it when he did not know that she was there, when she would accidentally come upon them in the bedroom, Boromir standing and gently rocking her or crouched low over her crib with Éda's tiny fist clutching one of his fingers. She loved to watch through the crack in the door, too afraid to join them. For how long she stood there, she did not know, but it truly was a glorious sight.

One thing Ismë had excelled in however was motherhood. Finally, she felt she had something meaningful to direct her time towards. Finally, she had a purpose. She no longer found herself just killing time, wandering the castle aimlessly or chatting superficially, just so that the hours would go by that little bit quicker. Finally, she had someone to love. Finally, she'd found happiness.

And someone to love her in return, too. For no matter how many years passed, Éda would always be hers; they would always share an affinity with one another as mother and child. And no one, not Lord Denethor, not all the armies in Mordor, could take that away from her.

There wasn't much room for joy in the House of Denethor, nor, it seemed, in the world in general at this time. Things in the court had changed much since she had first arrived and as had the world outside, though Ismë had not ventured there in almost eight years now. But it seemed that the joy was draining from the world. The great shadow of Mordor was growing day by day, darkening more and more, if that were even possible. The city remained in an almost perfect state of bliss, used to the constant battles that took place in Osgiliath and the other lands to the East, used to the darkness when they looked out from the citadel and the white towers. But people were growing worried; Ismë saw it in their faces – in Faramir's, in Boromir's and the other captains. But through all of this, there was Éda. Forever sweet and innocent in all her tiny being. Whatever went on in the outside world, whatever dangers were out there, however much darkness Ismë ever saw, there was always Éda. Like the eye of a storm or a port for a ship, she was relief, she was safety, she was love.

There was only one person that scared Ismë in the entire world and that was Lord Denethor, for he was the only one who truly had power over her and he knew how to wield it. And Ismë knew that he would not give a second thought into doing so. He had become so empty, so ruthless and cold. All knew that he potential had been there within him, but none guessed that it might actually come into being. It had started before Ismë had arrived, but still she bore the brunt of it. She had not always, of course – Faramir had always received the worst of it. But with the arrival of Éda, she was finding out exactly what Faramir had been experiencing his whole life.

Ismë had been extremely wary of Lord Denethor after the birth, but the next time she saw him everything had returned to normal. It seemed his anger had passed. Perhaps he was content in the knowledge that she was still young and plenty of years of childbearing left in her. Perhaps he even thought that she might rebel against him for real and continue having girls if he continued to treat her so badly. His thoughts were so unpredictable these days that she dared not try to guess them. And so, he was nothing but jovial each time he greeted her, as rare as that occurrence had become.

And this time was no different. As usual, Ismë was wary as she made her way to the Great Hall. Every summoning by Lord Denethor put her on edge; she could not help but think that his mood might have changed again. Her footsteps echoed as she walked through the tall doors, holding Éda in her arms and with Adie following shortly behind. Her head was held high, ready to face whatever Lord Denethor may throw at her.

But her cautious eyes met nothing but a wide smile and a warm gaze. It had been many, many months since Éda's birth but to all intents and purposes it seemed that truly everything had been forgotten. On his part, anyway.

"Ismë, my dear," Lord Denethor cried as he saw her, though it was more like he was greeting an old acquaintance whom he did not particularly want to see, someone he had grown apart from for a reason, rather than the girl who had once been like a daughter to him. When he received no reply from her, save for a blank expression, he leapt from his seated position and made towards her.

"Well, let me see her," he chuckled, his arms outstretched.

Ismë handed the small babe over, although reluctantly. She was not quite sure exactly what she was afraid he might do, but his sudden changed in mood after the birth was very suspicious to her, not to mention unsettling. She had never come across someone so temperamental. She needn't have worried, for he only smiled down at Éda and stroked her head softly.

"How she has grown! She is the very picture of beauty," Lord Denethor exclaimed, positively beaming now. "Just like her Mother."

The way Denethor acted now made Ismë think of the old days, when she had first arrived, when he had treated her like a daughter. She had a sudden wish to go back to those innocent times.

"There must be another on its way before long," he asked, still smiling, though Ismë could sense something else behind that smile. A falseness, something sly and calculating. She had seen that smile before. It was at the celebrations for Éda's birth.

After the birth and a few of necessary and most welcomed rest, Ismë had returned to the real world, where everyone had wished to see the new addition to the House. Ismë had been dreading it, for in the few days previous all manner of gossip had travelled around the city in regards to the mother and child. She did not want to know what had been said. But of course, within hours, they all had known, the whole city had known that she had failed. She wondered how many people were pleased. She could not bear the scrutiny of it all, all the eyes watching and knowing as she held her daughter before them. Denethor's in particular. She had seen the way he had looked at her and at Éda, too. Like they were against him, like they wished to hurt him somehow. Ismë supposed that in his twisted mind he really believed that she had, he thought that she had done it to spite him, she could see it in his eyes. And she pitied him for it, though it angered her that he should blame a small baby. So she took that anger of his and directed it at herself, she had taken it all and shouldered it, for the sake of her daughter. The girl could never know what hatred she had innocently and inadvertently caused. From that moment on, as Ismë had stood, watching Lord Denethor seething beside her at the sight of her failure, she had decided to hate him back. Her anger towards him was overwhelming. Though she could bear his newfound anger towards herself, there was no excuse, absolutely none at all, to hate an innocent child, for what had she done wrong except to exist? It was a heavy burden for one so small, too heavy, she should not have to bear it, Ismë had decided. And as her mother it was her duty to bear it for her daughter.

But the celebration had been a rite of passage, a tradition; there had been no way out of it. Besides, Ismë had hated the fact that she was made to feel guilty for giving birth to Éda. She had felt as though she really did wish to proclaim Éda's existence to the world. That, yes, she had given birth to a girl – a beautiful girl, who would be well loved for all her life, unconditionally and irrevocably. She wanted to tell the world that she was her child.

Or their child, she should say, for Éda was just as much Boromir's as she was Ismë's. And Éda could not want for a better father. Already he had shown himself to be a doting, gentle and loving parent. The opposite of his father, just as Ismë had known he would be. He was in constant awe of the girl, they both were. But for Boromir, it was like all his dreams had come true.

Seconds, after Lord Denethor had handed the child back to Ismë the doors to the Great Hall once more and Faramir strode in. He looked slightly taken aback when he set eyes on Ismë and his Father together, for it was a rare sight, and for a brief moment a strange expression passed his face. Ismë was certain he was contemplating turning around and walking out again, for the room contained, for him, the worst combination of people. All it needed was for Boromir to join and they would have a rather nice family reunion.

"Forgive me, Father," he said, rather solemnly, but politely enough. "I did not realise you were busy."

He inclined his head to Ismë and she gave a small curtsey in reply, as was custom. In past times none of them had bothered with the trivial traditions and manners of the court, but recently, as Faramir retreated further and further away from them, he had begun to reintroduce them. Ismë supposed that he covered his lack of presence and familiarity with politeness instead, it lessened their absence and no one could fault him on it either.

"Not at all. If you have something to say, then say it," Lord Denethor spoke. His tone was colder than it had been with Ismë, but like Faramir, it remained polite enough, though it might have been speaking to a complete stranger rather than his own son. Faramir gave a small smile and walked over to them. He looked uncomfortable; Ismë felt the same and imagined she looked it too.

A moment of silence passed between the three and Ismë willed Faramir to speak. The atmosphere was rather awkward, but, still, Lord Denethor smiled, seemingly unaware of it. Ismë knew he only pretended to be ignorant of it. Finally, it was indeed Faramir who broke the silence.

"It's good to see you, Ismë," he said, his tone far too polite for Ismë's liking. The familiarity they had once shared was lacking of late and Ismë lamented the loss of it. "How is the young girl?" he continued, giving a nod towards Éda.

"She is well, thank you," Ismë answered. "Although, I can't say she keeps me well rested."

This brought a small chuckle to Faramir's lips and Ismë was glad for it broke the strained atmosphere somewhat.

"She is well worth it," he replied, stroking Éda's cheek affectionately.

That was all Ismë ever got these days, a brief, polite but restricted conversation. But then again, things were difficult to say the least. A horrible awkwardness had crept upon them many months before, though neither of them knew exactly how it had happened or how to get rid of it.

Before Ismë had a chance to say anything more, to inquire into his own health or find out anything about where he had been, Faramir had already turned to Lord Denethor. What he had to discuss with him, Ismë did not know. She rarely concerned herself with matters such as those in recent days. Besides, Lord Denethor was more and more terse with Faramir than ever and Ismë did not know how much longer she could hold her tongue to it anymore. But of course, it was best to do so. No good would come of it if she spoke up; her opinion was rarely asked for or welcomed by Denethor. So she now played dumb to it, ignoring how guilty it made her feel and how much she felt like she was betraying Faramir, and pretended that it did not happen.

Their exchange was short and to the point, soon enough Faramir was striding out of the Great Hall and away from Ismë yet again. But something clicked in her as she watched his retreating back. She'd got to thinking as they stood talking. How many more times would she have to witness this sight? For how much longer would she continue to stand, rooted to the spot and watch as he did this? And what would be the outcome? Surely it would eventually damage their relationship beyond repair. Perhaps one day she would see that sight for the last time, maybe he would not return. It seemed a likely occurrence. Ismë already felt that she barely saw him as it was.

Ismë grew panicked at the thought – becoming estranged to either of the brothers was possibly her worst nightmare. So as each of these thoughts raced through her mind, she sprang into life.

She felt a vague awareness that Lord Denethor was speaking to her but that did not matter. Her thoughts concerning Faramir had scared her. This silence and avoidance had gone on too long already. Any longer and they would be past the point of no return. She had to stop it now.

"Excuse me, my Lord." She curtsied swiftly, the words tumbling out of her mouth, before she had a chance to stop herself. Shifting Éda in her arms and hitching up her dress, Ismë walked swiftly after Faramir. The doors of the Great Hall clattered against their hinges loudly as Ismë burst through them. The reverberating sound caused Faramir to turn and face the source. Ismë thought she saw him sigh as he set eyes on her face. She flushed at the thought of his eyes on her; it felt like so long since they had last spoken properly.

"Faramir," Ismë spoke, breathless from her fast pace. "Please, talk to me, Faramir."

"What do you wish me say, my Lady?" he answered, his voice cool, calm and free of emotion. Since when had he become so emotionless? So…cold almost, she thought. This was not her Faramir at all; her Faramir was kindly, compassionate, loving… But then, Ismë had to stop herself, for he wasn't her Faramir. She did not own him and therefore could not dictate to him or try to control him.

Ismë felt lost for words at his reply. She did not know what she wanted him to say – anything! She walked a few more steps, opening and closing her mouth in sequence, struggling for a grasp on her thoughts, until she stood directly before him. She looked at him straight in the eye, but he could not meet her gaze. She frowned at this and at the sight of him – his head turned off to the left and his eyes falling on anything but her. She mourned for the sorry state that they were in.

She knew she shouldn't but against her better judgement Ismë found herself reaching up and taking hold of his chin with just the tips of her fingers. Éda stirred in protest, as if willing her Mother to stop, but Ismë ignored it. With just the most gentle of touches she moved his face to meet hers.

He truly did sigh then. His face was directed at Ismë's now but he closed his eyes, silently fighting her actions the entire time. His chest heaved as he took a deep intake of breath. Ismë felt it hot on the hand that still rested on his face, as it left his body in one long and meaningful sigh.

But when he opened his eyes again, they locked with hers. It was wrong and Ismë knew it, they both knew it. In theory it was just a look, just a small touch, but anyone who might come upon them would know that it meant so much more.

"If only…" Ismë started. But that really had done it. Looks were one thing but words, words were a different thing entirely. And clearly Éda did not approve either, for at this moment, before Ismë could utter another forbidden, heartfelt word, she let out a rip-roaring cry, much too loud for one so small. Instantly, Ismë dropped her hand from Faramir's face and tried to hush the babe, rocking her gently as she did so. Éda quietened easily enough, but the moment was gone. Ismë felt almost relieved for she had been treading on dangerous territory, something which she would have regretted dearly later. It was so easy to forget about Boromir, as harsh as that sounded, when he wasn't there and all Ismë had to look upon was Faramir's dear face.

When Ismë turned back to him, Faramir was no longer looking at her. Instead, his eyes were on her daughter, sitting quietly in her arms, blue eyes wide and alert, legs either side of her mother's waist and arms entangled in her long hair. A few moments of silence passed and Faramir stayed as he was. Until, finally, he spoke.

"You have truly been blessed," he said, smiling down at Éda. It was a smile of the old days, one that he used to frequently direct at Ismë.

And Ismë could have kissed him then. In fact, there weren't many moments when she didn't want to. It was not in Ismë's nature to betray those she loved, she was loyal through and through to her family, no matter how far away they were, but she could have been fooled at that moment. She wanted to kiss him so badly. The love she felt for him was so overwhelming that she almost choked on it.

She coughed on a sob and managed to stutter out a whispered 'thank you'. Then she collected herself, thinking back to her previous thoughts, and she grew bold.

"Let us meet," she asked him, forcing familiarity and casualness into her voice. "It has been so long since we spoke properly." He looked uneasy so she continued speaking. "It will be a goodbye, I mean, before you leave again, as I'm sure you will be very soon."

"Yes, I am," he answered, then paused before he continued. "I should like that."

So the date was set. Ismë felt a twinge of guilt as it was arranged. But she was not betraying Boromir, was she? Faramir was her oldest friend – in fact, he was one of her only friends – and what harm was there in meeting old friends? Besides, these days he did not linger in Minas Tirith for long, his Company was always called for in Osgiliath or some other realm of Gondor that was in need of protection. She could at least just say goodbye to him.


	9. Eight: Inescapable Realisations

Eight

Inescapable Realisations

It was wrong and Ismë knew it. As did Faramir, but neither quite wanted to admit it. They both thought that perhaps, if they did not speak of it, it might not be real. If they closed their ears and eyes to the outside world, pushed away any thoughts of duties and expectancies, then they would cease to exist.

It surprised Ismë how easy it was to do this. When she closed her eyes, the whole world around her, the House of Denethor and the citadel, simply melted away. What was left was bliss, it was happiness, it was Faramir. All she had was his soft words and gentle touch. There were no prying eyes, no obligations, nothing was wanted of her. They only required each other, just as they were.

She could have stayed there forever, cocooned in a little sphere of ideas and dreams. Her head swarming with plans and forbidden thoughts. How would it work? Could it work at all? She had pushed all feelings of guilt and betrayal out of her mind in one moment that felt like strength, but was really more like weakness – an inability to face up to the real world.

It had all started with a single question: why should she? It had come upon her in the dark of the night when she lay in an empty bed, wide awake and pondering the current, and rather dangerous, situation. She had been lying there, deliberating for hours, going over and over the recent events and her past feelings again and again. And then, just when she thought she would go mad with all the confusion, there it was. Just that one little question, just three little words. Why. Should. She.

For her whole life Ismë had followed what others had told her. They hadn't needed to force her to do anything, for she had gladly done it, out of duty and, in most cases, love. She had always thought that they had needed her to do whatever it was they had asked of her, that they would not do without her, but that probably wasn't true. Was it love that caused her parents to send her to Gondor? Was it love that guided Lord Denethor when he made her marry Boromir? Did anyone have her happiness in mind when they told her to do something? It was unlikely.

So why should she comply? Why should she do as she was told when it was never in her interests to do so? Why should she not make a decision for herself, for once? Why should she not do what she wanted to do? Did she not deserve it, after all this time of doing the bidding of others? Ismë felt strongly that she did. It was just a small thing, after all, just a short, insignificant meeting, that would change nothing, surely?

They had not talked it over for long after Ismë had made the suggestion. Perhaps this was because they knew it was wrong and did not want to linger on the subject. The words seemed to just tumble out of their mouths. In fact, neither of them said the words explicitly; it was all just rather suggestive. But they both knew what the other meant; they both knew what would happen when they met. And after they had made the arrangements they parted ways, as if it were a crime to be seen together.

And then the thoughts had begun. At first Ismë felt excitement, finally she was to get what she wanted. Then came guilt as the thought of Boromir and all his kind words flooded her mind. But then there was anger and resentment towards Lord Denethor and, for once, towards her family. Ismë was not sure how it was possible for one person to feel all these feelings at once, but somehow she was managing to do it.

And so it continued like this for many days, until finally the day came. They were to meet in a small courtyard by the Houses of Healing, it was secluded there, a place for the recovering patients to reflect and rest, and get away from the rest of the city. They were to meet at twilight, a time when neither of them would be missed and so their absence would go unnoticed. When Ismë thought back to all these factors later, she realised how sly it all was, it seemed almost salacious, but at the time neither thought anything of it. It was as if they could have picked any time or place to meet, like any normal pair of friends.

Ismë passed most of the day in a restless mood; she was on edge, but also rather excited, so much so that she almost felt ashamed, but for once, she could not hide her feelings. When the time came Ismë had been pacing slowly in her room, with Éda in her arms. She kept glancing towards the window, watching as the sun dropped inch by inch, lower and lower into the sky, waiting for the exact moment when it began to grow dark. Finally, when she thought that the moment seemed right, she called Adora in and handed her Éda.

"I'm going out, Adie," she announced, trying to avoid eye contact with the young girl.

"May I ask where, my Lady, at this late hour?" Adie questioned.

"Just for a walk, that's all," Ismë lied, giving her a reassuring smile. "It's a little too chilly for Éda though. Would you take her to the nurse, please?"

"Of course, my Lady."

Adie gave a small curtsey and departed the room. As soon as she left Ismë let out a small breath in relief. She was not quite sure why she was so tense, but she hated lying to Adie. Not that she had even said any kind of hurtful lie, but she knew that Adie would disapprove of her meeting. For, though they had never spoken of it, Adie knew Ismë's true feelings. She had been her maid for years now and, though Ismë's mind remained near impenetrable to all others, Adie always knew her innermost thoughts. She was paranoid that Adie would read her mind now, so she had kept her reasoning to a minimum, but she had seemed to accept her words well enough.

Ismë tried to be as normal and calm as possible as she put on her cloak and left the room, making sure that Adie was out of sight as she did so. She left the citadel swiftly, her steps sure and fast. The light of the fading day kept her suitably obscured without hiding her completely – to be seen skulking around in the shadows would do nothing for her reputation – and she continued without faltering until she reached the courtyard.

Faramir was already present and waiting for her as she arrived. He turned as he heard her footsteps and she run to embrace him.

"I'm so glad you came," she whispered, as they pulled away.

"Why would I not? It's rare that I get to have you to myself these days." She blushed as he said the words and turned away slightly. He shifted awkwardly, before gesturing to a nearby stone seat. "Shall we…?"

Ismë sat down in reply, holding her hands tightly on her lap, and watched intently as Faramir took a seat opposite. She could not help but notice that things were a little different between them, the way they were acting around one another was almost unnatural. Ismë was all of a sudden afraid to say and do certain things that she would otherwise have never even thought twice about doing. She was afraid to touch him, afraid to let her eyes linger upon him for more than a moment, afraid to show any kind of emotion towards him at all, lest it should be seen by some unknown onlooker.

At first they talked quietly for a while, of trivialities really – Ismë's least favourite subject. Faramir asked after her health and of Éda and she asked if there was any news of the outside world. But really they were dodging the real issue behind why they were both there.

Ismë thought that it might have been like a fairytale. She thought that once she saw him then she would be able to forget about everything else, that she would fall into his arms like some helpless damsel in distress, waiting for her love to come back and take all her troubles away. She thought that she would only see him - that only he would matter. But now that she was here, that was not the case. She had thought that it would be so easy to leave everything else behind and run away with him, not that things had quite developed that far yet, but she had certainly contemplated it on more than one occasion. But when faced with the true reality, she did not quite have the strength to do it. Because it wasn't really strength was it? It was weakness. It was a quick exit, it was the easy way out, it was a short-term solution to a long-term problem. Besides, she could quite easily turn her back on the bad thing in her life – it was one thing leaving behind Lord Denethor, the court, the expectations and the rest – but what about the good things? They were another matter entirely. For all of these contemplations required forgetting about her daughter, her husband, her family. Ismë willed it to be different, but it could not be so. There was no way around it. She wondered why the world would be so cruel and unjust and why people didn't just get what they wanted.

But, at the same time, that wouldn't work at all, would it? For she wanted Faramir, but Boromir wanted her. Faramir wanted her in return, but he also wanted to see his brother happy. It was Ismë that brought him happiness though, and Éda. And Éda brought Ismë happiness and she could not have had Éda without Boromir. So how was it all to work? There was not a way to please them all.

Whilst these thoughts rushed through Ismë's mind, Faramir had continued talking, of what she did not know for there were far more pressing matters to think about. But at that moment, he stopped. A lengthy silence fell between them and Faramir did nothing but gaze at Ismë's folded hands.

"Ismë? Are you happy here?" Faramir asked gently after a moment. Ismë gave no answer. "I want more than anything to make you happy."

Ismë paused for a moment to take in his words, but when she looked back up again, his face was inches from hers. His eyes were fixed on hers, but she could not meet them. He was seconds from kissing her, seconds from making her every wish come true, so why did she have that same nagging feeling at the back of her mind? Why did she want to pull away, despite the number of years she had waited for this to happen? He was so close now; she could feel his breath on her face; shallow, nervous breaths caressing her cheek. He raised his hand to brush the length of her jaw, at his touch she closed her eyes, they were almost there…Perhaps, she should just give in…

But nothing came; she felt a rush of air as he pulled away.

"This is not right, I am sorry." He rose and turned away from her, his head bowed.

"I know," she whispered. "It isn't. I can't do it."

He faced her as she spoke, she could see the guilt in his eyes. But there was uncertainty also; he was torn, bound by his duty to his brother but also by the strength of his love for her.

"I apologise for suggesting it, I don't know what came over me. I knew it was wrong from the start." She paused before continuing. "Don't think ill of me, will you?"

"I would never," he replied, his voice firm – Ismë believed him. "You are not wholly the one to blame."

"It was a moment of weakness, it will never happen again." The words saddened Ismë as they escaped her lips, that set it in stone now.

"It was for both of us. We are only human, after all. Let us not speak of it again." He sighed. "I must go now."

Ismë could sense his old self coming back. There had been a brief moment when he had been back to normal, back to the Faramir that she had known before, but it seemed it wasn't meant to be. He had turned cold again. No, perhaps not cold, for she knew the emotion was there inside of him, just distant, cut-off from her once more.

But now she understood why. It was a defence mechanism. How could she have been so selfish before? She had recognised her own pain that she felt every time she saw him, but what about his? How it must have pained him to see the woman he loved marry his own brother! And then, give birth to his child! But theirs had never been a two-way relationship, she had never had to think about his emotions much, save to wonder if he loved her or not, but really that did not matter at all to Ismë. It made no impact on her emotions, whether or not he loved her back, especially not now she could no longer have him anyway. Now that she looked back, it sounded so selfish, but she had never meant it in that way. Only now did the realisation come upon her.

Before she had been almost angry at Faramir for the way he acted, for not talking with her and carrying on the way things were. But how could she be angry now? How could she have asked him to simply continue with things like before, after all that had happened? She supposed that she had never really, truly accepted things for what they were, that was why. When her parents had sent her to Gondor, it had been like some fairytale. She had moved to a distant land, she had met Faramir, her prince, but been thwarted by a villain – Denethor. It was like one of the old stories, it had not seemed like real life, she had been too young to comprehend the gravity of the situation – that she might stay there all her life and not see her family, for she was so far away from them now. She had never even thought of the reason why her family might have sent her there. And as much as it pained her to do so now, seeing as she hadn't seen them in so long, she felt so angry towards her parents. How could they have cast her away like that?

But there was no time for that now, there was no use in being at angry at them, they were hundreds of miles away from her now. Besides, there were more important things. Like Faramir. Ismë broke her train of thought and turned back to him.

"I won't see you again for a while now, will I?" She paused and Faramir shook his head in reply.

"I understand now, why you go away so much. It isn't just because you have to, is it? It's because you want to." He frowned, but she continued: "But I want you to know that I understand."

"Then I thank you for that," he smiled, laying a hand on her arm.

"And I want you to know that I won't tolerate this coldness you have had of late. I know that things can never go back to the way they were, I know that now for sure, but please, don't let us completely loose what we once had. It would be such a loss if we did."

"Of course I will agree with you, I promise that I will not let it get that bad again. And I'm sorry that I did not realise before how much it hurt you, that was not my intention."

"You know how difficult it is living here – you know more than most – I need at least one ally!"

"Well, now you have two." He said, smiling. "Boromir and myself."

"Then, I am content," Ismë replied, smiling at him in return.

She felt sure that things would get better from now on, even if she and Faramir were still not to be together. In fact, if anything, it was better this way, for she could not be certain that she would have survived the guilt of it all, had it gone the other way. She had felt guilty enough just thinking about something happening between them, how would she have felt if it had actually happened?

But anyway, things were better now, Ismë was sure of it. She _felt_ better, better than she had in a long time. The previous few days had just been a glitch, too many hormones racing round her body, too much time spent away from the company of the brothers. But now it was out of her system. Ismë felt sure that she would not think of doing it ever again. They had been tempted but they had resisted. Now the air was clear and they could start afresh, free of any tension between them or any awkwardness, any 'what-ifs'. Of course, the big 'what-if' still remained – what if she had married Faramir and not Boromir? – but she did not dwell on that now. She had accepted things as they were, she felt cleansed now, free of any emotions and thoughts that been weighing her down, free of the past. Now she had the future to look forward to. Besides, there was something greater to worry about, she was with child again. And what timing it was!

Two months passed and the day of Boromir's return finally arrived. Ismë had had much time to think everything over and to prepare her and Éda for the moment when they might greet him. She had not changed her mind about anything; she was steadfast in her decision in regards to Faramir and had also decided that she would redouble her efforts as Boromir's wife. She felt that she had been lacking of late, after certain distractions, but she had a newfound willingness to make it up to him. He deserved better than what she had been giving. The city deserved better than what she gave it, too. From then on she would be a model wife.

So as the day finally dawned, Ismë took Éda out of the Citadel and carried her all the way across the white stone paving, past the Tower of Ecthelion and the White Tree, and down the complete length of the gigantic stone that rose elegantly from the mountain, cutting the city in half like a great silver knife. From there, they could see everything. It was a beautiful summer's day, they had not had one so beautiful in a long time, and the sun shone off the white stone of the city as if caught in a mirror. Ismë almost felt as though, if she looked out across the great plains, she might see the reflected rays of it, dancing in the distance. In fact, the sun shone so brightly that day that you could almost forget the shadow in the East. They stood there, overlooking the entire city and the Great Gate, all day, waiting for Boromir's return, for when his Company were to arrive, they were sure to see it positioned here.

They passed most of the day just watching the inhabitants of the city moving below them. Ismë was not sure that Éda could comprehend the sight before her, but whenever she spoke or pointed at something in the streets beneath them, she would look and point with her, her eyes wide and watchful. Ismë told Éda stories to pass the time as well, ones that her mother had told her when she was little. Such as before, though she did not understand exactly what Ismë was saying, Éda would watch as she spoke, her eyes fixed on Ismë's moving lips, taking it all in nonetheless.

Hours passed and nothing happened. Then it reached the afternoon, the sun was still high in the sky and Ismë had to shield her eyes to see out across the lands. But it was unmistakeable. There was a rumble of hooves in the distance, just being carried softly on the breeze and echoing off of the mountain. Then, before long, plumes of rising dust from a hundred or so horses moving together could be sighted in the West, moving fast and towards the city of Minas Tirith. It would be some time until they reached it, but he was close.

"Look, Éda," Ismë cried, pointing far off to her right, while kissing the top of her daughter's head. "Daddy's back."

A few hours later and they were waiting for him in the courtyard. Adie had joined them and was presently bouncing Éda on her knee, while Ismë wandered lazily beneath the White Tree. The glorious summer's day had turned into a pleasant summer's evening, so they had continued their wait outside for the returning husband. They knew that he would come soon, for they had seen the company of men enter the Great Gate not an hour beforehand and heard the cheers of the townspeople as they greeted them, after a short break to see to the horses and freshen up, they would all be on their way to the Citadel. Ismë was quite nervous at seeing Boromir. It had been a few months since he had been home and the first time he had gone away since Éda had been born. She was unsure how she would react. Especially after the incident with Faramir. A flush of guilt and anguish flooded Ismë, even as she thought of it. What if he could see it in her face? She breathed deeply and tried to expel the feeling – after all, nothing had really happened.

All of a sudden, there was a sound of footsteps nearby and of many voices. It was them, they had returned. Ismë felt a flutter of nerves and butterflies swarmed her stomach.

And then she saw him.

She felt an unexpected wave of joy fill her, such as she had not felt towards him in a long time. Without thinking about what she was doing, Ismë hitched up her skirt and raced over, flinging her arms around his neck as she reached him, though he had barely reached the top step. He was much taller than her, however, so she had to jump a little. She was standing on tiptoes now, but as he embraced her in return, his grasp was so strong that her feet were raised from the ground. It was a childish gesture, but she felt an unanticipated feeling of enjoyment at performing it. The sight of the many men around him watching meant nothing to her, for what did she care for what they thought? She closed her eyes to them as her head rested on his shoulder. And when she opened them again the men had all but disappeared, they were filing into the Great Hall, one by one, ready for the feast that would start imminently. Lord Denethor always held a feast for the returning men, as a celebration of their victory over whatever foe they had encountered and subdued, and it was always a pleasant time. Then she lifted her head and looked him square in the eye.

"What's all this in aid of?" Boromir said, chuckling.

"I missed you," said Ismë, holding his gaze. "As did your daughter."

At those words, Adie walked forward, presenting their daughter, sitting upright in her small arms. Boromir set Ismë down and walked to greet her. He continued to smile as he took the now, much bigger Éda from the maidservant. Adie gave a small curtsey and resumed her position to one side, still watching and admiring the family's intimate moment.

Ismë watched her husband as he cooed over their daughter, bouncing her up and down in his arms and tickling her chin. Éda grinned and chuckled loudly, always happy to see her father. Ismë decided that now might be the perfect time to tell him about her news. She resumed her position of being up on her tiptoes and leaned close to Boromir's ear.

"Perhaps if you had returned a few months later," she whispered. "You might have a third person to greet."

She pulled away, smiling broadly and eager to see his response. He did not disappoint.

"You mean you're…" he stammered.

He was lost for words, it seemed the happiness, the wealth of emotion, the whole situation was too much for him. Instead, he simply weaved his free arm around Ismë's waist and pulled her back towards him, whilst hugging Éda tightly to him as he did so. His joy was infectious, soon enough they were all laughing together, even Adie. The second Boromir had released her, Ismë had swept the young girl up in her arms.

"Isn't it wonderful, Adie?" she said, breathlessly.

"That it is, my Lady," she replied, grinning broadly like the others. "That it is."

**Would they have said 'Daddy' back then in Middle Earth? I'm not so sure, but 'Father' sounded too formal, and 'Pa'…well just not right. So I stuck with 'Daddy'. It sounds appropriate so to Hell with it!**

**Sorry for the very long wait for this one, it's been on my computer pretty much finished for ages but I've just started university so I've not had the time to put the finishing touches on to it. I promise a quick update with the next chapter.**

**Hope you liked it, please show your appreciation by reviewing, thank you.**

**Your only doll x**


	10. Nine: A Change of Scenery

**Just a quick introduction to this chapter, I kind of thought that things were plodding along rather slowly and felt like we needed a change from Ismë's constant internal monologues, so I decided to do something a little different to get away from the usual setting. I hope this satisfies some of those Boromir fans out there too, if a little at least…**

* * *

Nine

A change of scenery

Ismë was growing restless again. It was not that she disliked her life in Minas Tirith, for everything was as good as it ever had been, she might have even gone as far as saying that she was happy there, but being stuck in the same surroundings day after day, week after week and month after month was beginning to get to her. Or maybe it was Lord Denethor's ever present figure by her side. His visits and summons had grown more and more frequent since they had announced her second pregnancy. Before she had barely seen him, he had spent most of his time in his rooms or in meetings, bothering himself with important political matters and did not seem the least bit interested in Ismë's life at all. But that had all changed now. Now, she could not get away from him. He was always there, like a parasite, leaching all the energy from her.

She could only guess as to the reasons for this, but chances were that she would most likely be correct. It was the baby – or rather, his future grandson, potentially. He was clearly checking up on her, making sure she would not do anything silly, not that this was at all likely, for Ismë was a very sensible person and she had grown rather quite serious in the last few years, especially since Éda had been born and she had taken on the responsibilities of a mother. But nonetheless, there he was. And it was suffocating her. Just as things with the brothers were finally settling down into place, there he was, ruining it. For she was finally beginning to really, _truly_, accept Boromir as her husband, finally she was letting herself be happy with him. Before she had only thought about it, decided on it, but now she was very nearly, actually _doing_ it.

And so that was what made her leave the Citadel. It was the first time she had done it since the birth of Éda and the thought of it had made her nervous at first, for she had not done it alone for a long amount of time. In her youth, when she had first arrived, it had been one of her most favourite things to do. She would skip out of the Citadel, down into the lower levels, on her own or with the brothers, either way she was not bothered, for she had so much spirit back then. She was curious about all manner of things; she wanted to know all what the city was about – who was where and what they were doing. But these days, with the added burden of being the wife of the son of the Steward, she had ventured there less and less. For now she was more than another child, now things were expected of her, people had opinions about her and she was sure that they were not always good. Some saw her distance as coldness, and rightly so for it was not far off being this, whilst others felt she still needed time. But either way, whatever people thought, they thought _something_ and it was as if they were waiting for her to do something to make them think otherwise. Or perhaps, to only confirm what they already thought.

But that was another matter entirely, what was on her mind at the present was the need to escape, to be anywhere other than the Citadel. She dearly wanted to leave the city entirely, but seeing as that was completely out of the question – she would not be able to even on a normal day, let alone whilst nearly eight months pregnant –the lower levels would have to do.

Thankfully, the opportunity came quickly. It was Adie that saved the day, as per usual. She was to be married. He was a soldier, a guard in the Citadel, who Adie had frequently spoken with over the years and now he had finally asked her to marry him. The news had come to Ismë one not so special morning, whilst Adie dressed her for the day.

"You are awfully quiet this morning, Adie," she had said. "Is something the matter?"

"No, my Lady," the maid had replied, she paused in the tying of Ismë's dress and Ismë took the opportunity to turn and face the girl. "It's just that…" She paused, hesitating.

"Do not worry yourself, Adie. Whatever it is that is distressing you I shall understand and help you in any way I can."

"No, my Lady, you do not understand – it is happy news I bear this morning." A small smile played on her lips.

"Happy news?" said Ismë, growing excited at the prospect. "Well out with it then at once!"

"Very well, I am betrothed…" Adie cried. "To Elros!"

"Oh, Adie! That's wonderful news! How could you not have told me sooner?"

Adie laughed in excitement. "I truly do not know, my Lady. I suppose I was just so shocked that I did not know how to say it. It has all happened rather suddenly."

"But you have known him for years, have you not? I'd say, and I'm sure many would agree, that this is a long time coming!"

"That was my mother's reaction, too," Adie replied, rolling her eyes a little. "It's true, I have known him a while but I was so young when we first met, I was not sure if it were just a childish fantasy or if it were real."

"Don't be silly! We have spoken of this before, how many times have I told you that he loves you? Everyone knows it! Now that he has proposed will you finally believe me?"

"Indeed I shall, my Lady, but perhaps not until the actual day…it still all feels like a dream to me."

"Well then I pray that the day comes soon, for when it does you will be the happiest girl in all of Middle Earth!" Ismë exclaimed, her spirits running high at the hearing of the happy news. The girls smiled widely at one another and embraced.

"My family is holding a celebration tonight for it. I cannot wait!" Adie said. "I wish that you could come…"

"And why ever should I not come?" Ismë replied.

"Well, Lord Denethor…"

"Oh, to hell with him! Of course I shall come; I would not miss it for the world. We will just have to make sure that nobody sees now, won't we?"

"Really? Are you sure?" Adie looked down at her swollen stomach; Ismë knew what she was going to say, she put up a hand in protest.

"If I could not handle it, I would not say I could come. Please, do not worry, I am pregnant, not an invalid! Besides, I am dying to leave this dreadful place."

Adie stood in thought for a moment before letting her excitement over her engagement cloud all other thoughts. "Very well then, you shall come. I know it will not be as grand as any of your celebrations, but I hope you will enjoy it."

"Don't be silly, Adie, of course I will. I am excited about it already."

And with that the plan was set. Ismë was to leave the Citadel as soon as it grew dark. She would give her excuses to Lord Denethor and say that she was feeling tired and would retire early to bed, missing the evening meal. No doubt one of the brothers would enquire, but to them she would say the same, specifically asking not to be disturbed. She would then pass Éda to the nurse, before slipping into her room where Adie would be waiting with her cloak to lead her outside to the lower levels and eventually to her home. She would stay there until nearly midnight, the time at which Boromir usually joined her in their bedchamber, and Adie would walk her back so that she would arrive and be nicely settled by the time he returned. No one would ever know she was gone. It was a simple enough plan, but one that they hoped would be most effective. It was not such a dangerous act anyway, she was only venturing to the third level, it was not really that far. And, though it was not entirely proper for a mistress to be visiting her maid, neither was it totally forbidden. Were anyone to find out, there was only so much trouble that Ismë could get into for it.

Later that evening Ismë prepared the foundations for the evenings plans. When Lord Denethor called her for their almost daily meeting now, she made her excuses and he accepted them without question, obviously not wanting to put her in any distress or discomfort – though sadly not out of his own concern or love for her, but rather for the baby. Leaving the Great Hall, she made her way to her chambers where Adie awaited.

"My Lady," she said as Ismë entered. "Did he suspect anything?"

"No, not at all," Ismë replied, chuckling. "His paranoia about the babe is clearly clouding his mind at the moment. And for once I am thankful for it!"

Adie giggled in return, both the girls in excitement for the illicitness of it all and for the celebration to come. "Quick, let us go before anyone sees us."

They quickly made their way out of the Citadel, Ismë boldly leading the way – confidence was key at this point. Though they kept themselves slightly hidden, it would have been foolish of them to sneak about. It was far better to act normal, but to yet be subtle. They walked past the guards as if everything were normal and did not draw attention to themselves by acting suspicious or seeming to sneak around. They walked with confident steps, whilst keeping their heads ducked and not meeting the eyes of anybody, with Ismë keeping her pregnant form hidden beneath her cloak.

The pair reached Adie's home in no time; though they were slower than they would have been with Ismë being so far gone, the horse had to go rather slowly. As they reached the house Ismë could already see the happiness that was contained inside. Adie broke into a wide grin as they approached, unable to hide her anticipation of the evening to come. Once they had dismounted and tied up the horse, she reached out and gripped Ismë's hand as they knocked on the door, giving it a squeeze of encouragement as they stepped inside.

Ismë was almost overwhelmed. There was so much going on, so many people around, so many smiling faces looking up at her. Compared to this, her celebrations could have been mistaken for a funeral. Adie's mother was the first to greet her.

"Good evening, my dear," she said, looping her arm into Ismë's. "We're so pleased you could come. Let me get you a seat…"

Ismë felt herself being gently nudged towards the table as Adie's mother guided her to an empty chair. It was difficult navigating her way around the room as it was filled with so many people. The room was tiny anyway, without half the street sitting in there as well.

"You must be tired after that long journey down," she continued. "Take a rest and I'll get you something sweet to drink."

The situation was overwhelming; there were so many faces looking upon her, but Ismë had not felt so happy in a long time. Here she wasn't the girl from a distant land, or the wife of Captain Boromir, or that noble lady from the Citadel, she was a person here, she was real – she was _herself_. There were no titles, no expectations, nothing. She was Ismë, nothing more and nothing less. No one made a mention of her life in the Citadel or of who she was at all, she could have been anyone. She knew that they knew who she was, of course they did, but they made no reference to it, but merely treated her like she was anyone else. Whether Adie had told them not to, she was unsure.

The evening passed joyously. Ismë had been seated next to Adie's brother, whom she had heard much about over the years but had not yet met. He was older than both Adie and Ismë, and was a blacksmith. Ismë found him to be a good man, he was tall and fair, like Adie, and had a heart of gold – also like Adie. But he had a sense of humour like no other, Ismë had not laughed so hard in years, he would constantly crack jokes, whispering them in her ear at the most inappropriate of times so that she would laugh into her drink or when the room had gone almost quiet. Adie sat the other side of her, next to her betrothed, whom Ismë was well acquainted with. They were a good match and Ismë saw it now more than ever. It would be love that would bind their marriage and Ismë could not be more happy for Adie, it was nothing less than she deserved.

The rest of Adie's family were a delight, too. Ismë had never felt so welcome and so loved in such a short amount of time. They were the definition of the word 'family', so close and so connected, it was wonderful to witness and Ismë felt truly blessed to be a part of it.

And so the evening was a success! Adie's mother had prepared a grand meal, fit even for the Steward himself, and they had sat around the table, drinking and laughing like nothing else. Soon enough, when the meal was over and the ale had been flowing, Adie's father stood to make a speech. He banged his fist on the table loudly to get everybody's attention, gaining him a sharp look from his wife as the plates and cutlery rattled in response.

"I'd like to propose a toast," he said, his strong voice filling the room. "To my darling daughter and her betrothed! May you be very happy together and may the Valar bless you with many fruitful years." He raised his glass and everyone followed suit. "To Adie and Elros!"

The room cried 'cheers' and everybody exchanged smiles with one another. Before Adie's father added: "And if you don't treat her right, be warned!"

He winked, chuckling heartily before ruffling Elros' hair. Adie only pulled him closer to her and kissed his reddening cheek. The room broke into laughter and a chorus of sighs could be heard from the women in response to Adie's actions.

In all the commotion, nobody heard as the front door opened and heavy footsteps thudded inside. It was not until Adie's father's booming voice could be heard crying "my Lord!" as he noticed the man standing behind him. The room fell silent at the exclamation and all heads turned to the unexpected visitor. Adie's brother paused, midway through a joke, his hand still cupped towards Ismë's ear and the laugh that had been escaping Ismë's lips, faded until all was quiet, as she noticed who had entered.

"Boromir," she said, the ghost of a smile still playing on her lips. "What are you doing here?"

"I apologise for the intrusion," Boromir replied, nodding towards Adie's parents who were stood either side of him, clearly feeling awkward at having interrupted the party. "But I had grown worried as to the whereabouts of my wife." He looked at Ismë now. "When I did not see you at dinner…" he began.

"I am sorry," Ismë returned, standing now. "But Adie is to be married. We were celebrating."

"It is my fault, my Lord," Adie cried, standing abruptly. "It was me who persuaded her to come. I should have known that it was too risky…"

"No, Adie," Ismë replied, firmly. "I wanted to come…"

Adie's mother interrupted at this point and Ismë was glad of it for Boromir did not seem to be too happy about his discovery. "Would you like to join us, Lord Boromir? There is still some food leftover and plenty of drink to go around."

"I thank you for your hospitality, madam, but no," Boromir replied, his face set and stern. "I will intrude on you no longer."

"Then I shall come with you," Ismë called, attempting to disentangle herself from the maze of chairs and bodies that filled the room.

"Must you go now?" Adie asked, disappointedly. "Won't you both stay for a little longer?"

"I fear I must," said Ismë, now having managed to make her way to Boromir's side.

"Do not leave on my part," he said, but his voice was flat and toneless, not encouraging Ismë in the slightest. "I only wished to know that you were well, you need not leave so soon."

"No, I will return with you, it is growing late and I'm afraid I am rather tired now."

"Very well," Adie said, defeated yet knowing and understanding the situation of her mistress. "I shall come, too."

"No, Adie, you stay and enjoy the rest of the party. I can take care of myself. Thank you so much for the lovely evening," Ismë smiled, turning to the rest of the room. "Thank you, all of you. I had a wonderful time."

She said her goodbyes and left. Boromir was silent the whole time and merely nodded his thanks as they left the small house. He continued to say nothing as he helped Ismë onto his horse, before gently leading it back to the Citadel.

They made the journey back in silence. Ismë was certain that he was angry at her deceit and for leaving the Citadel, for not only was he silent but he would not meet her eyes.

Back in the Citadel once more, Ismë sighed at the sight of the familiar surroundings. Though she felt rather refreshed after her adventure, albeit a short one, out into the city, the idea that Boromir was angry at her made her want to undo it all. Ismë returned directly to her room; whilst Boromir went in the direction of the Great Hall, not stopping to explain his acts, leaving Ismë somewhat in the lurch, facing his cold shoulder. Ismë could not recall another time when he had been as angry as this with her, they had had their quarrels, that was true, but never had he acted in this way towards her. They were usually quite open about any disagreements they had, not that they happened very often.

Ismë sighed once more, frustrated that her happiness should be tainted yet again, and began to get really for bed. Once in her nightgown, she sat at her dressing table and began to undo the braid in her hair. It was so easy feat, for Adie had a gift at braiding and often braided Ismë's long hair into the most complex of styles, with plaits and twists extending along her back. Ismë usually had Adie on hand to assist with the undoing of it all, but tonight she had to make do with only herself. As she struggled, the door to the room opened and Boromir entered.

"Forgive me for being so long, there were things I had to attend to," he said, his eyes falling on anything but Ismë's face and his expression grave as he undressed. Ismë gave her reassurances and they continued their actions in silence once more.

But Ismë's mind was racing, now she grew angry too, eager to know why it was that she was not allowed to enjoy herself. It bubbled up inside her and, not being one to hide her true feelings, her objections soon came tumbling out of her mouth.

"Boromir," she stated, setting her brush down on the table rather abruptly, her voice calm enough, but hard. "I really must ask that you cease your silence."

He stopped what he was doing, but did not look at her. So, she continued: "Will you not even look at me? Is what I have done really so bad that you cannot even face me?"

He did as she asked, but his face was still as hard and cold as it was before. "I wish to know why it is that you are so angry at my actions. Is it too much to ask for a little joy in my life? A change of scenery? For that was all it was." She was ranting now, her voice raised, but she could not stop, it had to all come out. She had to know why. "Adie is my dearest friend and I know what you will say – what your Father would say, also – that it is not appropriate for me to visit her, to spend time with her and befriend her, but the truth of it is that I love her like a sister and if I am to be punished for it now, then so be it. I accept my fate and will not change or regret my actions."

They stood in a stunned silence as her words came to an end. She was breathing heavily, chest rising and falling in strong, fast movements, awaiting his response. Boromir paused for a moment before answering, eyes searching the ground as if it could give him the words he needed. Then he looked up at her and finally met her gaze.

"Ismë…" he started, gathering his words. "You mistake me…"

"Mistake you?" Ismë replied, utterly perplexed. "If you are not angry for that, then what can you possibly be angry about?"

"I am not angry at all…"

"How can this be? You have not said a word to me all evening and the way you were right in front of Adie's family – I did not know you had it in you to be so rude! I sincerely hope that you did not ruin their evening, for you would never hear the end of it from me if you have."

"Calm yourself, Ismë," Boromir said loudly, a hint of annoyance in his voice now.

"I will not calm down until you explain yourself! The least I deserve is that. It is not unreasonable for me to have wanted to go. I only wished to-"

"I know what it is you wished to do!" He was growing more irritable now, his voice was raised, like hers had been. He slumped down on the bed and put his head in his hands despairingly. "I do not think it was wrong of you to go and I am not angry that you did."

Ismë's anger subdued at the sight of him and at the calmness of his voice. All irritation was gone now and she could see that he spoke the truth. Maybe it wasn't anger she had seen in him after all, maybe it was something else.

"Then, why did you act so?" she inquired, eager to know his thoughts. Her voice was calm now, too, she had no more angry words left to give.

"I do not know…" he started, struggling to voice his feelings. "I just…I had never seen you like that before. Not for a long time anyway…"

"Like what?" replied Ismë, her brow creasing with a frown as she settled on the bed next to him.

"Happy…" The word barely escaped his mouth, his voice was so quiet. It left as one rasping breath and it took Ismë a moment to realise what it was that he had said.

"Happy?" she repeated, dumbfounded.

"Yes…" Boromir replied. He was facing her now, he reached up a hand, slowly, and tentatively traced the line of her lips with his fingertips. "It has been too long since I have seen you smile like that. Why is it that you do not smile anymore?"

"I…I do not know…" Ismë stammered in reply, barely comprehending the words that he uttered to her, as unexpected as they were.

"I only wish that I could make you smile like that, to make you as happy as you were in that room," he continued.

"But I am happy!" Ismë cried in defence, heartbroken at his words. "Please do not think otherwise, truly I am."

He turned away from her, clearly not believing her words. But she could not leave things like that, reaching out she turned his face back towards her and held his chin firmly.

"I would never lie to you, Boromir, you must know that and believe me when I say that never could I ask for a better man than you to call my husband. Or to be the father of my children." She paused then to lay his hand upon her stomach, before looking him straight in the eye. "I will always be happy with you by my side."

* * *

**I suppose this chapter doesn't exactly advance the storyline much but I thought it was quite a nice little addition nonetheless. I also thought it might be quite nice to prolong their happiness for a bit longer before things go downhill and the plotline begins to kick in more. I promise I won't be so long with the next chapter - got my inspiration back for this one so I'm on a roll with it again at the moment. Thank you so much for the reviews for the last chapter and for anyone out there who's following this but who hasn't reviewed yet, please take the time to do so, I am very interested to know what everyone reading this thinks and all comments or ideas are welcome.**

**Thanks again,**

**Youronlydoll x**


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